


30 days Sheriarty

by GalaRey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:44:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 25,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11679567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaRey/pseuds/GalaRey
Summary: Coming late to the party, so I'll try for two a day to see if I can get through them.





	1. Index

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



As written by fabricdragon here are the 30 day sheriarty challenge prompts. I'm going to try to do two a day for the next 15 days.

I need to push myself outside the comfort zone outside waiting for the muse to strike and this looks like a good exercise. Apologies for the quality, these will be written off the top of my head, as one draft without editing. All of the stories are unrelated. 

 

1) Dreams

Chapter 17. (8/8/17) ~~2) Date Night~~

Chapter 6 (8/3/17). ~~3) Drunk Shenanigans~~

Chapter 22 (8/12/17). ~~4) Tiny Differences (Chunky or creamy peanut butter? Red or white? Spit or swallow? >:) )~~

Chapter 13. (8/4/17). ~~5) Holidays~~

6) Smut/Kink/Implied Sex

7) Afterglow (because apparently Jim likes some aftercare ;) )

Chapter 9. (8/3/17). ~~8) Unsent/Unread~~

Chapter 19. (8/10/17) ~~9) Games (of the playful kind, cards, board, video, etc, not of the murder kind!)~~

Chapter 5 (8/2/17). ~~10) Break-up (NOT leaving someone for someone else. Relationships can fail for all sorts of reasons)~~

Chapter 16. (8/7/17). ~~11) Fluff~~

Chapter 21 (8/12/17). ~~12) Meeting Family~~

Chapter 4. (8/2/17). ~~13) Adaptation Swap (Pull different versions of Moriarty or Holmes from other story universes and pair them with the BBC ‘verse, see how it goes)~~

Chapter 10. (8/3/17) ~~14) Era Change (set them in a different decade, time period, etc)~~

Chapter 18. (8/10/17) ~~15) Crack (For some light-hearted strange in the middle)~~

Chapter 24. (8/15/17) ~~16) Injury/Hurt/Comfort~~

Chapter 3 (8/2/17) ~~17) Domestic.~~

Chapter 20 (8/10/17) ~~18) The Borgias Pearl (what if Sherlock wasn’t crazy, and Moriarty had really left him that pearl? Or, what if Sherlock went hunting down where that pearl really is?)~~

Chapter 7. (8/3/17) ~~19) Massages~~

Chapter 26 (10/29/17) ~~20) AU~~

Chapter 14. (8/5/17). ~~21) Kisses (bonus points if you mention the height difference :D)~~

Chapter 23. (8/13/17) ~~22) Story Time (Because apparently both Jim and Sherlock are fix-it fic writers :D)~~

Chapter 12 (8/4/17). ~~23) Angst~~

Chapter 8. (8/3/17) ~~24) Irrational Fears~~

Chapter 15. 8/6/17) ~~25) Space/Astronomy~~

Chapter 25. (8/16/17). ~~26) The First “I love you”~~

Chapter 11 (8/4/17) ~~27) Put them in a movie ‘verse (feel free for writing to only be a SNIPPET, this can get lengthy. No need to churn out a long one unless you want to)~~

Chapter 26 (10/25/17 - yeah I suck). ~~28) OT3/Poly (Jim, Sherlock, and whoever else! Tag appropriately please)~~

Chapter 2 (8/1/17). ~~29) Songfic (either the old-style lyric fics, or just inspired by).~~

30) Free day


	2. Songfic (Breathe Me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30 day Sheriarty Challenge. 
> 
> Prompt: Songfic
> 
> Song- Breathe me by Sia
> 
> What I was attempting here, to debatable effect, was using only the song lyrics for the dialog of one of the characters, while still having it make some sense.

Help. JM

Surrounded by his friends at Baker Street, Sherlock schooled his expression as he typed a hasty reply. It wasn’t time yet to let those closest to him that the man they all feared was very much alive. There wasn’t an easy was to reassure them that they were safe from the man, because he couldn’t quite reassure himself of that.

What do you need? SH 

I’ve done it again. JM

“What’s wrong,” John said, noticing the frown that had crept past Sherlock’s defenses.

The detective forced a smile. “Nothing. Just a boring client request. Cheating spouse.” He glared at John accusingly. “You did update your blog to let these people know that I don’t do infidelity unless it’s sufficiently entertaining, didn’t you?” 

John lifted his hands defensively. “Yeah, Yeah. It’s not my fault that people want to scare their spouse by having the great Sherlock Holmes catch them boffing the maid.”

Sherlock let out a dramatic, long suffering sigh as he glanced back at his phone. Jim hadn’t sent any additional texts. He was usually brief, but if this was what he thought it was, then the lack of further communication could be very bad. He needed to leave.“Bored,” Sherlock grumbled suddenly. “Why are people so relentlessly tedious.” He ran his fingers through his hair and bent over, interrupting the conversation of the room. John and Lestrade looked over at him then shook their heads and continued. 

“You have guests Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson chastised softly.

“Yes. I need some air. I can’t think in here,” Sherlock growled, jumping up and grabbing his coat.

“I’ll go with you,” Billy said.

“No. What did I just say? I need to think,” Sherlock snapped with a little more venom, staying in character to one of his prickly moods. He didn’t want anyone at all tempted to ‘keep him company’.

John frowned, but used to this he just shouted after Sherlock, “Get some milk while you’re out.”

Sherlock smirked when he reached the street. No doubt John was pleased with his little parting shot. He’d gotten much better at standing up for himself in their friendship.

It took him some time to get to Jim’s current bolthole, an unassuming little flat on the outskirts of London. Precautions to slip the CCTV surveillance and big brother’s ever watchful eye, made the trip even longer. The delay was especially frustrating when compounded with the creeping concern worrying away at the back of his mind over what state he’d find the criminal in. 

He slipped his key into the gate of Jim’s apartment and broke into a run up the stairs once he was safely outside the sight of any witness. He swung open the door to Jim’s flat and found him standing like a wraith in the dark, looking out the window. 

“Jim,” Sherlock said softly, approaching the criminal carefully. “What happened?” 

The silhouette of James Moriarty turned to face him, a deeper black within the darkness. Sherlock turned on the light and froze at the sight of the man, deathly white in a pale gray suit, half of the jacket soaked in blood. Jim grinned, a glint of light in his black eyes, high on mania. 

Sherlock was on him, tugging off his jacket and ripping open his shirt searching for a wound. Jim passively watched the detective as he was manhandled and his skin was searched with quick clever fingers. Sherlock pursed his lips after his inspection and glared at the criminal. “Whose blood is it then,” he asked a little more tersely than he intended. 

Jim shrugged, letting his shirt drop to the floor with a wet splat that made Sherlock internally flinch. Judging by the amount of blood and the splatter pattern, Jim had killed someone tonight. Depending on the circumstances this would make things complicated, to put it mildly.

“How am I supposed to convince Mycroft to look the other way with you, if I can’t assure him you’ve reformed,” Sherlock grumbled, kicking the soiled garment across the floor. Jim flopped into a chair and stared into an unseen distance, infuriatingly silent. Sherlock inhaled sharply. “I’ve been an idiot. You haven’t changed. You’ll never change. Do you realize what this does? Where this puts us?”

The criminal laughed mirthlessly. “I have been here many times before,” he said so softly it might as well have been a whisper. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock grumbled, but the off-kilter jittering energy of the man made him soften his tone. “What did you do Jim?”

“Hurt myself again today and …”. Jim’s jaw clenched and his fingers drummed with nervous energy against the arm of his chair. 

“No, you’ve hurt someone else. Fatally. You did that Jim. No one else. Again.”

Jim nodded absently, then suddenly his face lit up in a grin, bright and intense, as if he’d just been told Christmas was coming twice this year. “The worst part is that there’s no one else to blame.”

Sherlock straightened. A waste of time. He didn’t know why he wasted his time on this madman. “It’s your mess. Deal with it. I’m done.” He turned on his heel to march out the door forever when Jim’s hand snatched his arm, freezing him to the spot.

“Be my friend,” Jim said quietly, head down breathing shallow. In the blink of an eye he’d turned from maniac killer to a wounded child. “Hold me.”

Sherlock gaped. He tugged his arm lightly, but his wrist remained firmly within Jim’s iron grasp. “Your hand is freezing,” he muttered.

Jim looked up at him through the fringe of his disheveled hair. “Wrap me up,” he said with a simple earnestness that was disconcerting on him. 

Sherlock sighed and dropped down to his knees, pulling Jim against him and enjoying the feeling of the man’s cool bare skin pressed to his chest, under his palm. “I hate you sometimes,” he said. “You’re the best, most infuriating puzzle, that I fear has no solution.”

“Unfold me,” Jim sighed, nuzzling soft breath along Sherlock’s jawline. 

“I don't know if anyone can,” Sherlock sighed, wishing it weren’t true. Jim crawled into his lap, the sudden shift causing the detective to fall backwards. “Watch it, you’re heavy.”

“I am small,” Jim hummed stubbornly, crushing himself closer into Sherlock’s embrace. “I’m needy.”

Sherlock bit his lip and ran his fingers up and down Jim’s spine. “Yes. I- I shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“Warm me up,” Jim said, brushing his lips along Sherlock’s with a thirst he’d never seen before. “And breathe me.”

Sherlock pushed the criminal off of him and jumped to his feet. “I can’t be with you if you insist on continuing to live this way. I want to be better Jim. I need you to be better before I can, before we can -“. Jim stared up at him from the floor with those dark bottomless eyes, silent as the grave. Sherlock couldn’t stand the scrutiny of Jim’s dead gaze. He turned and he ran. Back out the door, into the cool night air, slamming the door behind him.

He walked for blocks in silence. His mind whirred with guilt and want and righteous anger for over an hour as he wandered aimlessly through scattered neighborhoods. 

When his phone pinged, he almost ignored it. 

Sebastian Moran has been found. You’re safe. MH

Sherlock sighed at his brother’s melodrama. 

Of course I’m safe. I could handle Moran. SH

No Brother mine. He was quite intent on killing you. MH

Sherlock frowned, thoughts beginning to click into place.

He’s dead. But you didn’t kill him. SH

Interesting. That information hasn’t been released yet. MH

How did he die? SH

Throat slashed. Toxicology still needs to come back, but we believe he was not intoxicated. MH

Why is that important? SH

Because he was awake at the time and yet apparently did not put up a struggle. Something you want to share with me Sherlock? MH

Sherlock turned off his phone and flagged down a cab. He was back at Jim’s flat in under five minutes. This time the stairwell felt particularly dark and oppressive and Sherlock thought the worse as he burst back into Moriarty’s flat and found nothing but empty shadows there. 

He ventured further, turning toward the bedroom when he heard water drip from the bathroom. He flung open the door and turned on the light to find Jim sitting in the tub surrounded by water tinged pink, head back and eyes closed. On the sink a dozen prescription pill bottles lay open. Sherlock was down on his knees in a minute, yanking the man up. “Jim,” he said, voice cracking a bit. When he didn’t respond, Sherlock slapped Jim’s face, screaming at him to wake up and shaking him.

Panic spiked then. Sherlock hoisted Jim out of the water and carried him to his bedroom, laying him out and checking his vitals while shouting at him. Finding a weak pulse, he fetched a bucket and some towels, then turned Jim on his side and slid his fingers back against his tongue until he hit the gag reflex and forced the man to empty the contents of his stomach until he ran empty.

Eventually Jim cracked open a drowsy eye. “Ouch,” he said in a flat deadpan, then pushed Sherlock away from him, stumbling back unsteady on the bed.

“I thought I lost you,” Sherlock sighed, slumping against the nightstand.

Jim blinked as he looked around the room disoriented then squinted at Sherlock as if he’d never seen the man before. “I have lost myself again,” he giggled, then his face fell like he might crumble with the weight of life itself.

“Moran is dead,” Sherlock said, reaching out to touch the man only to have Jim flinch away. 

“Lost myself,” Jim muttered, laying down and turning his back, sing-songing. “And I am nowhere to be found.”

Sherlock cautiously inched up to sit on the corner of the bed. “You did that for me. To keep me safe?”

Jim sighed and was silent for a long moment before finally whispering. “Yeah.”

Sherlock ventured to touch him again. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I should have asked… I should have been better.”

Jim didn’t move away from the touch, nor did he respond to it. He remained turned away and closed off. Sherlock slid up behind him and put an arm around his waist, kissing Jim’s shoulder. He felt the smaller man tremble slightly in his hold. “How are you feeling?”

“I think that I might break,” Jim whispered. 

Sherlock carefully turned Jim to face him, the glint of tears in those dark eyes surprised him. When he gasped, Jim flinched ever so slightly. Sherlock combed his fingers through Jim’s wet hair. “It’s okay. I have you.”

“Lost myself again and …” Jim tightened his jaw, trying and failing to pull back on his mask of indifference. He tried to turn away again, but Sherlock cupped his face and kissed him. A choked gasp slipped from Jim’s lips.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry.”

“I feel unsafe,” Jim hissed. For a moment anger flashed across his face like a lightning strike, then it dissipated into the downpour of his grief. 

“I’ll keep you safe Jim. I’m here.” Sherlock pulled Jim against his chest, kissing his forehead, rubbing his back. “I won’t leave you again. Don’t leave me.”

“Be my friend,” Jim said, looking up at Sherlock, pleading. “Hold me.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, trying to rub life back into Jim’s limbs. “God you’re freezing.”

Jim pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s chest, curling into him. “Wrap me up, unfold me.”

Sherlock pulled a quilt from the foot of the bed and cocooned the two of them within it, keeping Jim pressed against him. “You’re fine without him,” Sherlock said in his best attempt at reassurance. “Just a hired thug that even you could barely control.”

“I am small,” Jim whispered. 

“I like the way you are. You’ll forget about him Jim. I’ll take care of you.”

“I’m needy,” Jim said.

“So am I,” Sherlock said, kissing the top of Jim’s head. “I can handle it.” He realized then that this was now a blood debt Sherlock would never be able to fully pay. Jim had killed the closest thing he had to a friend for his sake alone. Truly alone now, Sherlock owed him this, to make good on his promise. 

Jim looked up and kissed Sherlock, hard and demanding. “Warm me up,” he demanded, pushing Sherlock back against the bed and straddling him. He sucked Sherlock’s bottom lip as his hands roamed along his chest until they found buttons of his shirt and tore them open. He kissed Sherlock until he took the detective’s breath away. “And breathe me,” Jim whispered.


	3. Domestic

A crash echoed from the kitchen breaking Jim’s concentration and sending his pencil skittering across the page of equations he’d been working on. The former criminal growled, but tried to calm himself and resume his work when the pop of a small explosion interrupted him again. He tossed the pencil at the wall with such force that the metal tip stuck to the plaster like a thrown jack knife. 

Bursting into parlor, he found Sherlock nonchalantly dispensing a fire extinguisher over the kitchen table. 

“I’m working Sherlock,” Jim snapped, his fingers clutching the doorframe.

“So am I,” Sherlock replied, lifting his goggles and giving his boyfriend an infuriating smirk. The fire extinguisher hissed as Sherlock smothered one tiny remaining flame.

Jim ran a hand down his face. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

Sherlock dropped the extinguisher with a clank. “No! No. It’s working,” he said, running up to Jim with his clothes covered in god knows what and trying to embrace him. Jim jogged back, staying out of reach, which only seemed to further the detective’s resolve.

“Don’t touch me with that mess,” Jim said, running back to put Sherlock’s chair between the two of them. 

The two of them darted back one way then the other, around the barrier. The detective had an awfully gleeful expression plastered on his face. “Take it back.”

“No.”

“Take it back Jim or I’m going to ruin your suit.”

“I hate you!” Jim picked up a book and threw it at the detective. 

Sherlock dodged the incoming projectile with ease. “No you don’t.”

“I’m going to burn your flat down,” Jim hissed.

“I was just in the process. I’m confused, why are we fighting,” Sherlock said smugly. He gave up trying to get around the chair and with a leap, walked over it and snatched Jim into his arms.

Jim snarled in Sherlock’s arms. His lover had no appreciation of the care of fine fabric whatsoever. “Let me go.”

“Tell me you want to stay,” Sherlock said as his lips trailed hot along Jim’s neck, sending goosebumps shivering through the criminal’s frame.

“You’re a bad flatmate,” Jim snarled, twisting in Sherlock’s hold and managing to pin the man down and straddle him. 

“Yes. But I have other charms,” Sherlock said, lifting a leg to press between Jim’s thighs.

Jim rolled his head on his neck. By the name of every god and saint he was going to murder this man in his sleep. Probably. Tomorrow. 

“Ahem,” came a stiff voice from the doorway.

“Hi John,” Sherlock said cheerfully.  
“It’s only been an hour and you’re already trying to kill each other,” John said.

“It’s his fault,” the two men said in unison.


	4. Adaption (Elementary Moriarty, BBC Sherlock)

Sherlock circled the device which remained from his latest case involving a particularly deranged mad scientist. A portal to a parallel universe, which could bring you an alternate version of anyone you’d lost in this life, because in infinite others, they’d be alive. Sherlock traced his fingers along the consul. Surely the ravings of a madman overcome by the loss of his child.

It was curiosity more than anything which led him to lift the headset to his temple and turn the device on. The scientist had said it required someone to focus on the person they wanted to retrieve and it would be done. Rubbish, surely. Even so.

He flipped the switch and the machine whirred and choked to life, spitting arcs of electricity through the air. He closed his eyes, concentrated, and was promptly thrown back by the force of the electric feedback. The lights in the room immediately shut down.

Sherlock dusted himself off, cursing his own stupidity, when the platform began to glow and the murky silhouette of body approached the glowing blue disc. Sherlock forgot to breathe as he watched with anticipation, then groaned when the clear form of a blonde woman entered the room. 

“Where is this,” she said, her voice soft and airy. 

Sherlock jumped to his feet and dusted his legs off. “Apologies,” he said. “I was looking for someone else.” He stalked to the edge of the laboratory and reset the circuit breakers. Harsh halogen lights.

The woman blinked her cat like eyes against the intrusion of the light. “I was working.”

Sherlock returned to the control panel and began to shuffle through the notes of the inventors. “I’ll get you back,” he said. “My apologies for the interruption Ms -“.

“Adler,” she said.

Sherlock froze and looked her over. “You don’t look like Irene,” he said.

A sly smile quirked the corner of her lips, but her eyes held a sparkle of curiosity. “Strange. How do you know that name?”

“There’s an Irene here too. She’s a dominatrix,” Sherlock muttered, returning to his notes.

Irene’s eyes widened a moment at the dominatrix bit, but she tilted her head and examined Sherlock a little closer. “And where is here?”

“An alternate reality. I was trying to see someone again,” Sherlock muttered.

“Someone who died,” she replied, giving Sherlock closer scrutiny. 

Sherlock stiffened. Irene was as quick as ever. “Yes. He probably found a way to kill himself in every reality knowing him.”

Irene picked up some of the papers and began to scan them as well. 

“I doubt you’ll understand that,” Sherlock muttered.

“You’d be surprised what I’m capable of understanding Sherlock,” she said. 

Sherlock’s had snapped up to catch her smiling impishly down at him. “You know me in your reality as well.”

“I do,” she said. “You look different than mine. More hair, fewer tattoos.”

“Who else do you know?” The pages slipped from Sherlock’s fingers and he had renewed interest in this version of the woman. 

“Here,” she said, pointing to scrawled note at the end of one of the journal pages. “It says the effect only lasts three hours. Then I will return to my own reality. Apparently the phase shift can only be temporary.” She frowned down that the pages. “This man had so much grief.”

Sherlock was to his feet in a moment. “Do you have to stay near the device for it to work?”

Irene scanned the pages. “Nope. Why?” She grinned up at him. “Want to take me for a date?”

“Chips?” Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed to the door. 

Irene looked at the page for another moment, then tossed it over her shoulder, letting it fall to the floor. “Why not,” she said and followed after him.

They spent an hour wandering around London, sharing a serving of chips and comparing notes on their respective versions of the city. It took Sherlock a while to build up the courage, but eventually he broached the subject. “How well do you and I know each other in your reality.”

Irene was smug for a moment, then relented, “Intimately Mr. Holmes. And in yours?” She popped a chip into her mouth.

“I think it’s what she wants sometimes, but I’m afraid women aren’t my area.” He paused. “If I were to make an exception, it would be for her.”

“And why haven’t you,” she said, idly taking in the atmosphere of London at night. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Made the exception Sherlock.”

“I was distracted by someone else,” he admitted. 

“Oh? A man?”

“A brilliant man, yes,” he said. “She’s clever, but he’s … he’s an artist.”

Irene laughed and Sherlock froze. “Why was that funny?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just in my reality, I’m an artist and in this one I’ve apparently lost you to one. It makes me wonder if my version of you only loved me for my aesthetics.”

“I love you in yours?”

“Oh yes,” she purred, stealing a chip from Sherlock’s fingers. “Obsessively.” She gave him a flirtatious wink.

Sherlock shrugged. The parallel realities obviously diverged more than he thought.

“What’s Joan like in your reality,” she said, looking up at the stars with a far of musing look. “Is she your caretaker here?”

“Joan?” Sherlock frowned and tried to remember if he knew anyone by that name. “I must not have met her.”

“Pity,” Irene said. “I think she’d do you some good. Balance you out.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted with a shrug. “I have friends though. John was my flatmate for a while. I was even best man at his wedding.”

“I’m glad you have someone,” she said. “You’re very bad at taking care of yourself.”

Sherlock nodded. That might be something he has in common with every version of himself. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Lovely lady,” Irene said. 

Sherlock nodded, checking his watch. Another hour and a half left and he still hasn’t asked her what he really wanted to know. They continued in companionable idle chatter, talking about various people they’ve known and comparing notes on how they found them. Finding who they shared in common and who they don’t. Eventually Sherlock found himself in front of Bart’s hospital and came to a stop.

Irene noticed and followed Sherlock’s gaze to the roof then looked at him curiously. “This place is significant?”

“I died here,” he said. 

“You did a bad job of it,” she laughed, then sobered when she noticed Sherlock did not share her mirth. “Did he die here too?”

“It was a game,” he said. 

“Of chicken?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly and looked down at her with surprise. “I’d never considered that, but perhaps that’s what it was.”

“And he lost?”

“He won. He wanted me to jump from the roof and disgrace myself.”

“And if you didn’t, he’d kill your friends?”

“How do you know that,” he said. Perhaps some things had played out the same.

Irene shrugged. “You jumped. I assume you wouldn’t have done that unless he gave you significant motivation.

“Yes,” he said, deflating. Irene was quicker in this reality. If there had never been a Jim and he’d have met a version of Irene like her, it would make sense that he’d give in to her charms.

“I thought I had the upper hand, because I had him and I knew I could make him call off the kills.”

“Makes sense. So did you kill him?”

“No!” Sherlock nearly shouted, startling her. He recomposed himself. “Sorry. I’d have never been able to do that. Not him. No. He killed himself to force me to play out his end game.”

Irene frowned. “Sounds rather pointless to me. What was in it for him?”

“Alleviation of boredom,” Sherlock said. 

“Do you have a picture?”

Sherlock pulled up his phone and pulled up the old newspaper page showing Jim stealing the crown jewels and handed it to her. She scanned the article and stiffened. 

“Do you know him,” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“Not him specifically,” she said carefully, the glow of the phone screen illuminating the furrow in her brow. “But there is a Moriarty in my reality.”

“Is he a criminal?”

“Yes. The very best of criminals. An artist,” she said with a quirky smile. She typed into Sherlock’s phone and did a search of her own. Her laugh, musical and light, cut through the gloom of the night.

“Something funny,” he asked.

“John Watson,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s a real sausage fest in your reality.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing,” she said, waving off the question, but a smile remained. “So you are in love with James Moriarty?”

Sherlock sighed. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“I think it does,” she replied.

“You know your Moriarty well do you?”

“Intimately,” she said.

Sherlock flinched at that. 

“Oh sweety, you don’t need to be jealous.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock snapped.

“I think you still have a shot with yours,” she said.

“Not in this lifetime,” Sherlock replied morosely. 

“He’s not dead,” she said.

“I assure you, he is. I watched him blow his brains out.”

“For no other reason than to one-up you, no,” she said said, chastisement in her tone. She took Sherlock’s face in her hands and tsked, “No, no, no you gorgeous idiot man.”

Sherlock pulled away from her grasp. “How would you know,” he grumbled.

Irene lifted her hand, glowing blue and beginning to go transluscent. “I guess it’s time,” she said with a small smile. She shrugged. “It’s been fun.”

“Tell me how you know,” Sherlock demanded.

“Because Sherlock,” she said, sliding up to him and pressing a fading palm to his heart. “I love me too much to kill myself just to show you I’m clever. That would be the art of it. Making you solve my murder. Watching you mourn me.”

Sherlock tried to grab her hand, but found only air. “Who are you?”

“Jamie Moriarty,” she said as she faded from this reality, her Cheshire smile the last to fade. “Bye.”


	5. Break up

“How about this case,” John said, lifting his tablet. “Murder in a locked utility room at Kings Station.”

Sherlock reached for the tablet when Jim slapped his hand away. “Local drug gang. Making an example of a courier who didn’t follow orders.”

“You don’t know that,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“I do. Want their addresses?”

Sherlock flopped back down on the couch and Jim resumed resting his head against his chest.

“Okay,” John sighed. “Missing daughter of a member of Parliament.”

“Ex-wife,” Jim said. “She doesn’t really want the brat, just the money.”

“Here’s one from Mycroft. There was a breach of MI6’s field agents and -“

“Oh God! Is this really what you do all day,” Jim grumbled, pressing his face into Sherlock’s shirt. “It’s so boring.”

“MI6 is boring?”

“They’re the worst,” Jim grumbled.

Sherlock reached out for the tablet, but Jim swatted his hand away again. “Tell the iceman to check his cleaning staff?”

“I’m sorry, are you saying the maid did it?”

“They’re undercover agents. Deadly. Just your type puppy,” Jim hummed, snuggling into Sherlock with a yawn.

John shot Sherlock a look and the detective sighed. “Jim,” he said, massaging his fingers into the smaller man’s scalp the way he liked.

“Yes dear,” Jim hummed.

“This isn’t going to work,” he said. 

“No.” Jim sat up abruptly and stared down at Sherlock in shock. “You’re breaking up with me? I thought you wanted me to be part of the team.”

“I don’t think you’re going to enjoy solving crimes.”

Jim smirked and flopped back onto Sherlock, snuggling close. “You’re just jealous that I’m better it.”

“Sorry I didn’t spend most of my life orchestrating -“ Sherlock was cut off with Jim’s kiss.

“Whatever dear. I don’t care.”

“Just like that?”

Jim grinned. “Just don’t stay out too late. If you let me get too bored, I might decide to do something very naughty just to shake the criminal class back into shape.”

Sherlock looked at Jim in wonder. “That would actually be quite -“

“Ahem. Sherlock,” John said pointedly.

“Uh - very bad Jim. Very very bad.”

Jim laughed and got up, wandering to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock looked at John and the doctor sighed, waving his friend off. “It’s fine. Just go. We’ll do this later.”

“I’ll just go make sure he’s okay,” Sherlock mumbled with some embarrassment.  
“Right,” John said, rolling his eyes.


	6. Drunk Shenanigans

“You’re- You’re- not fair,” Sherlock said, his head nodding as he struggled to stay upright.

“Always,” Jim said, slinging one of Sherlock’s arms over his shoulder and leading the detective toward the door of the pub. “Only idiots play fair.”

“Are you calling me a- a-, what did you say?” Sherlock’s head pivoted as he scanned the room over Jim’s head. “Where did you go?”

Jim grabbed Sherlock’s shirt and nearly knocked him off balance as he yanked him down to eye level. Sherlock swayed then beamed when their eyes met. “There you are! You’re pretty James. Did I ever tell you that?”

“We aren’t drinking again,” Jim grumbled, tugging Sherlock forward, but finding the man was now resisting him like a stubborn mule.

“No! No, no, no. I’m fine. We can’t leave yet,” Sherlock said, pivoting to head back toward the bar and dragging Jim along with him.

“I’ll leave you here,” Jim growled. 

Sherlock grabbed Jim’s hands and pulled him back. “Please. No, don’t go. You cheated.”

“Did I,” Jim laughed. 

“You are not drunk,” Sherlock said, trying very hard to pronounce each word. 

“It’s not my fault that you’re a lightweight,” Jim said, but allowed himself to be pulled back to a quiet booth in the corner and hoisted onto Sherlock’s lap. 

Though he barely felt a buzz from the whisky they’d had, Sherlock’s lips and tongue nipping and licking up his throat did more to make Jim’s mind begin to go fuzzy. “You’re going to regret that,” Jim said, pushing gently against Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Hmmmm…. Doubt it.” Sherlock loosened Jim’s tie and began working the buttons of his shirt open. 

“You will,” Jim said, buttoning his shirt back up only for Sherlock to work them open again. “You hate public displays, remember?”

“No,” Sherlock said, gripping Jim by the back of the neck and taking advantage of his half open shirt to attack bare skin and suck a possessive bruise into the pale flesh. 

“Time to go,” Jim said, squirming on Sherlock’s lap. “You’re going to punish yourself over this later.”

“I’d rather punish you.” Sherlock cupped Jim’s crotch, pulling a groan from him. Jim cursed and bit his lip. 

“At home,” Jim said, his breath coming in short pants. “Let’s go home and you can do whatever you want honey.”

Sherlock paused, looking up at Jim’s flush face with eyes glazed and blown to the point where the blue of his irises were practically eclipsed. “I want you here.”

Jim hissed as Sherlock pulled him deeper into the shadow of the corner booth and slid his hand down his pants. Damn this man and his ability to shut down all brain activity with a look and a touch. Jim was no stranger to sexuality, but there was something about Sherlock that made the smallest touch more intoxicating than his most extreme exploits of the past. Sherlock had his pants open now and had buried his face in Jim’s lap, sucking him deep and eager under the table while Jim was left struggling to maintain a straight face for the benefit of any passerby. Sherlock’s clever tongue worked him fast and hungry and it didn’t take long for Jim to find himself coming down the man’s throat. He bit his lip, swallowing the groan while his fingernails cut crescents into his palms. 

When Sherlock finally lifted his head, lips sinfully swollen and slick, curved into an infuriatingly smug grin, Jim felt dizzy. Sherlock kissed him, his tongue dancing along JIm’s, tasting like sex, while he tucked Jim back into his pants and zipped him up. When the kiss broke, Jim chased after Sherlock’s lips as if he were hypnotized. He was left hanging for a moment before he opened his eyes to find Sherlock looking back at him very pleased with himself.

“Okay, we can go home now.”

Jim blinked. Then his face twisted in a snarl. “You cheated.”

Sherlock kissed his forehead. “Only idiots play fair.”


	7. Massage

“Is this okay?” Sherlock pressed his knuckles between Jim’s shoulder blades and dug in hard into the knot of tight muscle.

“Harder,” Jim sighed, his head lulling back to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, giving the detective a rare sight of his lover in an unguarded moment of trust. Sherlock drank in the sight of him and dug his fist deeper into Jim’s back. 

“Harder,” Jim groaned, biting his lip. 

Sherlock’s knuckles cracked under the pressure he put them under, pressing into Jim’s overly tense body. “You’re very good at faking being at ease, considering how perpetually tense you are.” He opened his hand and pressed his palm flat against the base of Jim’s neck and pressed small circles into thickest part of the muscle. 

Jim hummed noncommittally. “Higher,” he said.

Sherlock worked both sides of Jim’s neck and shoulders, rubbing out the perpetual kink the criminal seemed to have there. “Lay down,” Sherlock said. “It will be easier.”

Jim was usually stubborn with commands, but in this particular area, he was always compliant. He stretched out over Sherlock’s bed and let out a pleased exhale as he hugged one of the fresh pillows. 

Sherlock took advantage of one of Jim’s rare open moments and admired the slim nude form of this brilliant madman who he’d somehow captured for his own. Jim’s brows furrowed after a moment with the lack of attention and Sherlock immediately placed his palms on the base of his back and worked his hands deep into the muscle, traveling up the spine then back again, only relaxing himself when he saw Jim’s face begin to smooth into ease once again.

Placing a kiss at the base of Jim’s neck he asked softly, “Do you want me to get the oil?”

Jim stretched under him with beautiful grace and hummed with pleasure. Sherlock wasted no time fishing out the tea tree massage oil which Jim liked when he was especially tightly wound. He rubbed a generous amount of the clean scent between his palms, then slid the oil up each of Jim’s legs, massaging the lean muscle deep and strong as he went. He gave each section of his body careful attention and care, using everything he knew about human anatomy to push and pull the tension out of his lover’s body. It took some time, as it always did, before he felt the knots begin to give, the tension begin to evaporate, but with persistence Sherlock eventually had Jim lax and humming with pleasure. When Jim finally began to yawn, Sherlock gave his back one more rub down, just to make sure he’d worked out every point of pent up anxiety, then put the oil away and turned the light off.

When he lay down next to Jim he was rewarded with the typically distant criminal cuddling up against him and yawning deep into his chest with a pleased sigh. Sherlock slid his fingers through Jim’s hair, lightly massaging his scalp and holding him tight until his breathing evened and he was completely pliant within his arms. Sherlock pressed a kiss to the crown of Jim’s head, warm dark hair tickling his nose with the scent of tea tree and James Moriarty. 

Sherlock had often heard people talk about how giving to another person was more pleasing than receiving from another. He’d never really experienced that in his life. Not until he had Jim in his life, for his own. It took Jim a long while to trust Sherlock enough to let him do these sorts of things for him, to let Sherlock see him open and vulnerable. Did Jim know how unnervingly much it pleased Sherlock to please him? Perhaps. If he did, for once, Jim hadn’t used it, twisted it, into something nefarious. That was progress.  
Sherlock listened to the soft breath of the man in his arms, enjoying the way he felt in his arms, in a rare moment of satisfaction and ease. It never ceased to be a novel experience. 

For either of them.


	8. Irrational Fears

“Jim!” Sherlock’s panicked scramble ricochetted down the hall until the man himself exploded into the study. Jim pulled his headphones from his ears, squinting through the glow of his laptop to the shadowed doorway. 

“What do you want?” He yawned and glanced into his empty coffee cup.

Sherlock ran to him and threw his arms around the criminal, crushing his head to his chest. “You’re alive. That’s good,” Sherlock muttered, burying his fingers in Jim’s hair.

“Mhmarphmph,” Jim tried and failed to speak with his nose crushed against the detective’s chest. He pushed against the man and took a grateful breath of air. “Not for long if you keep crushing me like that.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered, but did not fully withdrawal from touching Jim, as though reassuring himself that he was really there. “You’re real, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m real,” Jim grumbled, pulling away from Sherlock and taking his cup to the kitchen to refill his coffee. 

“I dreamed you’d killed yourself again,” Sherlock mumbled, following close at Jim’s heels.

Jim eyed Sherlock wearily. He hated when his boyfriend went into overly clingy mode. “For god’s sake. I faked my death once! Just once. All the cool kids were doing it apparently.”

Sherlock reached out and caressed his knuckles up and down Jim’s back. “Sometimes I think I’ve just hallucinated that you came back to me.”

Jim tolerated Sherlock pawing at him. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken in the middle of the night with this delusion and it was unlikely to be the last. Of course it was partly Jim’s fault, partly. Even so, it wasn’t an easy thing to talk him down from.

Jim took a sip from his coffee and winced. “If I’m not really here, do you mind hallucinating me a decent cup of coffee?”

“I’m being serious Jim.”

“So am I,” the criminal replied with a grin, only to meet Sherlock’s nervous darting gaze and sighing. “Come here,” he said, opening his arms.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jim and held him tight against his chest, stroking his hair, his back, brushing his lips over him. “How do I feel,” Jim said with a sigh as he let Sherlock touch him until he was reassured that he was really truly there with him.

“You feel real,” Sherlock said, but his hands didn’t stop roaming. To the outside eye, the motions would seem random, but Jim knew Sherlock was taking his pulse, measuring his body heat, counting the number of breaths he took. Collecting data, data, data to disprove the hypothesis of this reoccurring private fear. 

In time the motion of Sherlock’s hands slowed, as did the shallow panicked cadence of his breath and Jim could practically hear the gradual unwinding of the man’s fevered mind as he reassured himself of the reality beneath his fingertips. 

“Have you reached your conclusion,” Jim asked with soft patience.

“You’re real,” Sherlock said, finally unwinding himself from the smaller man. “You’re here. You’re mine.”

“Yes,” Jim said. He handed Sherlock his coffee cup. “Now make me a fresh cup. I have work to do.”


	9. Unsent/Unread

Unread texts. SH to JM

 

Bored. Being dead is boring, isn’t it? SH (4 years ago)

Thought I caught your trail in Mongolia. Was that you following me? SH. (3 years six months ago)

Come on. You love to play. I’m certain you know I survived. That was the plan all along wasn’t it? SH (3 year 2 months ago)

Your operatives in the Caribbean are tedious. I can see why you faked your death just to get away from these imbeciles. SH (2 years 11 months ago)

Heading to Eastern Europe next. We could meet. SH (2 years 6 months ago)

Back in London. I’m officially alive again. Care to join me? SH (2 years 3 months ago ago)

Apparently faking ones death without telling those you care about is a social faux pas. Your thoughts? (2 years three months ago)

Merry Christmas. SH (2 years ago)

This phone number has not been disconnected. A new owner has not responded to tell me I have the wrong number. You must still have access to it. Why keep up the payments otherwise? SH (1 year 10 months ago)

Everyone is boring. Answer me. Please. SH. (1 year 10 months ago)

John got married. I was left without a dancing partner at the wedding. I’ll be at Baker Street alone tonight. All this week. I’ll put on the tea. SH (1 year 9 months ago)

I can come see you instead. SH (1 year 9 months ago)

You aren’t really dead. So just stop this. SH (1 year 9 months ago)

Fine. You’re a stubborn and infuriating man. I’m glad you’re dead. I hate you. SH (1 year 9 months ago)

I was shot. Almost died. I dreamed of you. SH (1 year 7 months ago)

I killed a man. SH (1 year ago)

I don’t regret it. If you were wondering. SH (1 year ago)

I’m a criminal now. Like you. SH (1 year ago)

They are sending me on a mission to Eastern Europe. I won’t survive it. I don’t care. SH (1 year ago)

Yes. SH (1 year ago)

Yes. I miss you. I’ve told everyone you’re dead. They want me to find you. Can we meet? SH (1 year ago)

Oh. By the way. I’m a godfather now. If you’d be so kind, could you leave the Watsons alone? SH (11 months ago)

Where are you? What is the point of announcing yourself if you aren't going to visit me? SH (11 months ago)

A pearl? Really? What do find so interesting about a bauble? SH (10 months ago)

Mary is dead. John hates me. Did you ever hate me? It never felt like it. I never hated you. SH (9 months ago)

In case you were wondering. SH (9 months ago)

Oh god, I'm going to dream about you forever, aren’t I? Can’t kill an idea. Clever Jim, very clever. God you’re clever. SH (8 months ago)

Took too much again. I’m alone. I’m vulnerable. It would be easy for you. I wouldn’t struggle. SH (7 months ago)

Are you disappointed that I couldn’t find you? Was that the game? Did I miss something? SH (7 months ago)

High. I’m trying to help John. All I see is your face. SH (7 months ago)

Please talk to me. Just let me hear your voice. SH (7 months ago)

II did miss you. SH (7 months ago)

Jim. Please. SH (7 months ago)

Aksdfhio JIm a d I thiswon’tmakesenseImissyouandithinkilovedyouplease co meback, I want to see you. SH (7 months ago)

Apologies. That was undignified. I had to take more than normal for a case. SH (7 months ago)

I met a woman who reminded me of you. Was it your intention to hurt me by leaving? SH (7 months ago)

So I have a sister. You’ve met her apparently. She tells me you are dead. Everyone tells me you are dead. SH (3 months ago)

I tell everyone you are dead. SH (3 months ago)

It can’t be true. SH (3 months ago)

Because that was a lame final puzzle if it were Jim. I expect better of you. SH (3 months ago)

If I asked for you as a Christmas present would you show up like you did for her? SH (3 months ago)

Unlikely considering you no longer have Mycroft breathing down your neck to compel you to. SH (3 months ago)

Oh. I didn’t kill Mycroft. You misjudged that one. SH (3 months ago)

Care to find out what else you might have misjudged about me? SH (3 months ago)

I miss you. SH (2 months ago)

God I miss you. SH (1 month ago)

Good bye Jim. SH (1 week ago)

 

 


	10. Era Change

Sherlock waited patiently, eyes closed, body lax. Of all the templates which he pulled at will from his mind palace, he was by far the most difficult to summon, but with persistence, eventually he would come to him, he always did. He lost track of how much time had gone by when the familiar creek on the stairwell alerted him to the presence he craved.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Jim’s voice drawled. 

Sherlock smirked and he opened his eyes to see Jim standing there in his study wearing the same pale gray suit he’d worn at his trial. He jumped to his feet and circled the man appraisingly. Jim rolled his eyes and bore it a moment before he wandered with some annoyance over to Sherlock’s desk and began fiddling with the detritus there. “No,” Sherlock said and waved a hand. In an instant the study changed to its victorian counterpart and Jim’s clothing had morphed to a dark wool and silk suit with crisp white collar. 

The man looked at himself and laughed. “Do you have a fetish for this particular period?”

“I like the way you look in it. I thought you’d approve. It suits you,” Sherlock walked up to Jim and pulled back his jacket, removing the gun secured there. “If you wouldn't mind resisting the theatrics this time, I’d like a chance to talk with you.”

Jim's lips twisted in annoyance as his dark eyes watched his derringer disappear into Sherlock’s dressing gown. “Pointless,” he said, dry and weary. He held his finger out in the form of a pistol and said “bang”. A bullet whizzed millimeters from Sherlock’s face, grazing his cheek and exploding into the plaster of the wall behind him. 

Sherlock hissed, and touched the line of blood at his cheek, glaring at Jim who simply shrugged and glanced around the flat as though he were an overly bored child. “As a courtesy,” Sherlock continued, removing a silken handkerchief from his victorian jacket and dabbing the flesh wound. “Could we just talk?”

“Why,” Jim said, as if the prospect were the most tedious thing he’d ever heard. 

“I miss you,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Ah,” Jim said with a shrug. He took a few steps toward the window and peered out. The streets teemed with people navigating cobblestone and dirt. The sound of hoofbeats and voices merged into a din. “Why old Victoria? It's all been done before.”

“You disapprove?”

Jim glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock and grinned. The room rippled as if it were made of thick liquid and Jim was standing in a very trim white suit in front of a huge window overlooking the orbit of a foreign world. “The past is boring. I preferred the future,” Jim said taking a few steps toward Sherlock and adjusting the similarly cut black suit now draping Sherlock’s frame. “Isn’t that better?”

Sherlock stretched his body against the well tailored, synthetic smart fabric. “When are we?”

Jim shrugged. “Does it matter? Not then. Not there. Isn’t that what you want?”

Sherlock walked past him to look out the window to the glowing planet and the endless void beyond the horizon. “Would you have been happier if we'd met in a time like this?”

“Would it have been easier if you’d seen me vaporize myself in one clean shot instead of watching my skull crack open with a bullet?”

Sherlock scowled. “So you’re saying no matter when, no matter where, you would have ended the same?”

“I’m not saying anything Sherlock,” Jim said with a mirthless laugh. “You’re thinking it.”

Sherlock growled and stalked away from Jim a moment, but the man’s laugh followed him, burrowing in like an earworm. “No,” Sherlock said. He whirled around, but his breath caught at the sight of Jim leaning against a window, staring out into the stars. He steeled himself and waved a hand. 

The study evaporated and they stood outside a public school. Jim looked younger, 15 or 16, dressed in black baggy jeans with black hooded sweatshirt. Sherlock stood as his teenage self, unruly in his untamed hair and carelessly tucked in school uniform. Jim looked around and his lips twisted in a sneer. “The nineties. Really? Now you’re just being tacky.”

“What about here? Would things have been different if we’d met as we are, in this time, in this place?”

Jim tugged at his sweatshirt. “Do you really picture me as some depressed teenage outsider?”

“Weren’t you,” Sherlock challenged. 

Jim looked up at Sherlock and now he had a row of piercings up one ear and black mascara lining his young wide eyes. “Oh Sherlock. Do you think you could have saved me if you’d only found me like this? Angry and wounded, open for the world to see?” He laughed manically and the image of him morphed into one of a clean cut young man, bright eyed and face so angelic and boyish that it was impossible to imagine he could hurt a fly. He could have been a missionary or class president. The type of kid everyone called ‘good’. “Doesn’t this seem right?” Jim tugged his crisp white shirt down with a snap. “After all, what does a young psycho look like, really?”

“You weren’t a psycho.”

“Oh now you’re just lying to yourself,” Jim grumbled.

“Fine. But I’m hardly one to judge,” Sherlock said dismissing the thought with a wave. 

“I may have been mad,” the young man Jim might have been said as he circled Sherlock. “But I didn’t lie. Not to you. Not to myself. Not ever. I always knew what I was.”

“That’s what I believe. It’s not you. Anything you confess here means nothing,” Sherlock mumbled. He looked out at the faded memory of his old school yard and grit his teeth. 

Jim whirled on him, fury and fire. “Then WHAT’S THE POINT!”

The world rippled around them again and Sherlock found himself tied to a chair in a shadowy office. Light streamed through cigarette smoke through the slats of vertical blinds. Jim sat perched on the edge of a large desk in a pinstripe suit. A silver pistol aimed at Sherlock’s head clutched between ringed fingers. “We’re better like this,” Jim said with a sneer. “This is what I was. Just a simple gangster. Perhaps more clever than the rest, but in the end this is what we were.” He waved the gun in Sherlock’s direction. “Good guy.” He pointed the barrel to his chest. “Bad guy.”

“No don’t,” Sherlock wheezed against the ropes digging into his ribs. Jim’s gang must have worked him over because he felt bruises under the rough thick fabric of his boxy cotton suit. 

Jim just grinned and raised the barrel to his head. A loud bang and his body fell back with a sick thud and there was blood and loss and heartbreak all over again. Sherlock squeezed his eyes tight and gasped against the tears he fought against shedding this time.

“I don’t know why I ever bothered with you. You’re so boring,” Jim’s voice hummed idly.

Sherlock opened his eyes and he was standing in his study at Baker Street again. Present day. Jim lounged on his couch, back in the dark navy Westwood he’d worn that night at the pool, turning the skull from Sherlock’s mantle over in his hands. 

“Jim,” Sherlock whispered, taking a step toward him.

Jim glanced over at him with a look of profound disappointment on his face. “It’s all so repetitive isn’t it?”

“How do I stop thinking about you,” Sherlock said.

Jim sat up and tossed the skull to the floor. It rolled forward, stopping inches from Sherlock’s feet to stare up at him with hollow eyes.

“You don’t.”

With a gasp Sherlock came back to himself, still sitting in his study. Even though he knew it didn’t make sense he still scanned the room for any sign of his one-time adversary. His gaze lingered on the skull at his mantle and he distinctly heard the voice of James Moriarty whisper, “you can’t.”


	11. Movieverse - Potterverse

“I thought we were going to study,” Jim said, eyeing Sherlock with his new Gryffinndor friend John. 

“Oh,” Sherlock looked between Jim and John guiltily. “John was going to show me this secret passage he found.” 

Snow had just begun to fall in the courtyard and Jim blew warm air between his gloveless fingers. He huffed when he saw the dumb brazen look on the other boy’s face. Typical. “This is why you are the bottom of the class for our house.”

John grinned at Jim, all sunny and carefree and brash. “Come with us. All work and no play makes Ravenclaw a dull house.”

Jim's temper went from rippling to explosive in a heartbeat. “Say that again,” he said, voice dipping into soft honey while his eyes widened and focused in on the other boy’s face with laser intensity.

“Scary,” John laughed. “Especially for a bookworm.”

Sherlock danced between the two. “Okay! Jim. Come on.” He straightened Jim’s robes and fluffed his blue scarf up closer to his face. “I can lend you a pair of gloves. Come play with us Jim.”

“You don’t like it when I play with your friends,” Jim grumbled, peering over Sherlock’s shoulder to the oblivious boy behind him.

Sherlock leaned down and whispered in Jim’s ear, “Poisoning isn’t the same thing as playing Jim.”

“Says you,” Jim huffed. He shifted on his feet and looked back at John nervously. “It’s going to be boring. He’s boring.”

“It will be an adventure. And I’ll be there. I promise we’ll study tonight. I’ll come to your room.”

Jim hesitated, then eventually sighed, “Fine.”

“What’s going on here?” Mycroft stepped out from the castle door. He adjusted his green tie and gave his brother a hard stare.

“Spying on me again Mycroft?”

“As head boy, it’s my job to make sure you underclassmen aren’t wrecking the place.”

“We’re just talking. We’re allowed to talk aren’t we? Or should I tell Mummy you’ve been impeding my social development again.”

Mycroft glowered and glanced at Jim. “You’re being quiet Moriarty. Care to tell me what’s going on?”

Jim yawned. “Unfortunately nothing interesting.”

“I was surprised to see you weren’t sorted into my house.”

Jim just hummed, but his face twisted in pure derision. “Don’t flatter yourself. Slytherin is the dullest of them all. Ambition is predictable.” He met Mycroft’s eyes and grinned. “Ordinary.”

Mycroft sniffed, straightening to his full height. He looked the three boys over again and eventually grumbled, “Get back inside all of you.”

“We haven’t done anything,” John protested.

“Not yet,” Mycroft said, eyeing Sherlock. “Knowing my brother.”

The three of them filed back inside dutifully. Before parting with the two Ravenclaws, John tapped Sherlock on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. Sherlock grinned, nodded, then trotted after Jim.

“Do I want to know,” Jim said, watching the blonde boy jog toward his friends and begin to horseplay with some of the members of his quidditch team.

“Change of plans,” Sherlock said under his breath, putting his arm around Jim and pulling him close. “Study first, then we’ll adventure tonight.”

“We’ll adventure?” Jim rubbed his eyes. “More like the two of you are going to run around like fools and I’ll be tagging along like a third wheel.”

“You’re not a third wheel,” Sherlock said, kissing Jim’s forehead. “Please come. I like when you’re there. We might find something interesting.”

Jim blushed at the brush of Sherlock’s lips against his skin. “Fine,” he said. “But if we find anything useful, I’m keeping it.”

“Deal,” Sherlock said, taking Jim’s hand and leading them up to their house common area.  



	12. Angst

Jim woke up to the sound of the radiator kicking on and the faint scent of snow in the air. He shifted in bed to get a better view of the window glowing faintly in the dark from the light of a distant streetlamp. Sherlock made a disgruntled noise in his sleep. He wrapped an arm around Jim’s waist and pulled him closer. Jim didn’t resist. His back melded easily against the curve of the man’s chest, enjoying the warmth and god he’d never admit it, but the security of the embrace. 

Backlit against the twilight of a gray morning, the snowflakes drifting by the window looked like falling ash. Despite Sherlock’s best efforts to tame him, the sight still made Jim itch with the impulse to add to the fire of the world. That’s all the world would be in the end. Ash. If not by the hand of man, then nature itself would eventually do the job. Eventually the sun itself would swallow the earth whole. None of it mattered. Not London. Not the world. Not a single living thing upon it. All fleeting. Temporary. Pointless. Nothing deserved to continue. No one. Jim had long since ceased to care. The heavy flakes continued to fall powder gray against the light and Jim’s mind echoed with the word burn, burn, burn.

Sherlock rubbed his arm and kissed the nape of his neck. “Are you okay?”

Jim rolled over, pressing his face into Sherlock’s chest and inhaling his scent deep. Covers were pulled up around his ears and Sherlock rubbed his palm up and down Jim’s back in a slow steady rhythm. Before the sun could fulfill its lifecycle, people would most likely do the job themselves and burn the world to cinder. He’d run the numbers himself, knew the probabilities. Human beings were the most suicidal species to ever walk the earth. Despite all his rage, Jim was most assuredly human. 

“I hate…” Jim mumbled, drifting off.

“I know,” Sherlock hummed, but didn’t press, just continue to hold him, caress him. He knew. He might not feel exactly the same way Jim did, but he understood the where and why of the dark corners Jim’s thoughts often drifted to.

“I hate everything,” Jim growled against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Everything?” Sherlock’s hand slid up, his long fingers massaged Jim’s scalp, rubbing circles along his temple.

Jim bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, but the touch was soothing. Enough that he could almost pretend that everyone and everything weren’t already distant memories of dead world spinning through the void of space. Almost.

“Almost everything,” Jim admitted. Sherlock laughed and Jim smiled against the man’s skin.

“Thank you for putting up with it for my sake,” Sherlock whispered, lifting Jim’s chin to meet his eyes in the dark. Jim blinked. Sometimes it was difficult to look into Sherlock’s eyes for long. Blue green and clear, with a ring of yellow around the pupils. HIs eyes looked like a warm sea, like a sunburst against rich water, like life. 

“You better make it worth my while,” Jim whispered and Sherlock kissed him, deep and hungry. It ignited a supernova through Jim’s chest, reverberating through his veins, blinding the very heart of him and chasing away the dark.


	13. Holidays

“I’m not really a Halloween sort of person,” Sherlock said, adjusting his eyepatch and scratching the beginning of a beard Jim had insisted he begin growing out three weeks before. “Besides Guy Fawkes is just a few days away. How many bonfires does a person need?”

“You can never have too many fires,” Jim said beaming in one of his rare good moods. He emerged from the kitchen dressed in a tight blue double-breasted pinstripe suit, complete with pocket watch and umbrella. “How do I look,” he said, smoothing his hair slick into a familiar prim fashion.

“Like my brother,” Sherlock said with disgust.

“Perfect!” Jim spun his umbrella with a flourish and danced over to Sherlock to adjust the ruffle at his throat. “And you look good enough to eat all outlawish and suave.”

“I’m not touching you while you’re dressed like that,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Don’t be a prude,” Jim said with a pout.

“Don’t be disgusting,” Sherlock snorted. 

Jim shrugged and spun to head back to the kitchen. He emerged a moment later with bowls of something that looked like rice. He set one of the bowls in front of Sherlock then dug into his own. 

“What is that,” Sherlock asked, poking the thing with a stick.

“Colcannon,” Jim said simply, taking another bite. When Sherlock continued to poke at it, Jim groaned. “Come on. It’s tradition. You’re going to need your strength for the night ahead.”

“And what exactly does that entail,” Sherlock said, taking a hesitant bite. Finding the taste harmless, he indulged Jim by beginning to eat in earnest.

“Mischief. What else is Halloween for,” Jim said with glee. 

“Are we going to egg a house,” Sherlock hummed, already bored with the idea.

“Not exactly,” Jim said. Seeing Sherlock was unconvinced he added, “It will annoy Mycroft.”

Sherlock perked up at the promise of that. Jim pulled a security card from the inner pocket of jacket and brandished it before the detective.

“How did you get that?” Sherlock snatched the card from Jim and turned it over in his hand. Sure enough it was one of his brother’s badges leading into MI6.

“I lifted it from him the last time he was here.”

“Rude,” Sherlock said.

“You do it all the time.”“That’s different. He’s my brother.”

Jim blinked at Sherlock dumbfounded for a moment, then cracked into a laugh.

“What’s so funny,” Sherlock grumbled.

“I didn’t realize you were protective of big brother.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh yes you are. In the, no one is allowed to pick-pocket him, but me sort of way.” Jim leaned his cheek against his fist. “It’s adorable.”

“We’re not going to hurt him?”

“No dear. Just irritate him. Are you in or not?”

Sherlock huffed, turning the card over in his hand thoughtfully. Finally he sighed, “Fine. I’m in.”

 

The next day Sherlock awoke to angry footfalls storming up his stairs. Mycroft burst through the door of his flat. “Give it to me!”

Sherlock’s eyepatch slipped from his head as he looked up at his brother. “What’s going on? Why are you making so much noise?”

Mycroft threw a stack of papers down upon the desk with a resounding thud. “Get up! You know very well why I’m here.”

Sherlock groaned as he sat up and pulled the papers to him. It was an MI6 report detailing the 13 security breaches which had occurred the night before in the incident which had been dubbed the ‘Ice Sculpture Incident’.

That was putting it kindly. Sherlock smirked then caught his brother’s stern expression and his smile dropped. “And what makes you think I had something to do with this?”

Mycroft inhaled sharply and dropped a single security photo taken from inside his office, showing Sherlock in the process of ripping off Jim’s clothes.  
“Evil little imp told me he’d disabled them all,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“And where did he get those … gifts,” Mycroft pressed.

“He said you needed to thaw out a little.”

Mycroft glared. “You embarrassed me. Where is he?”

“You’re going to take him into custody for a prank,” Sherlock scoffed. “You have no proof he did this.”

“Morning,” Jim said, emerging from Sherlock’s bedroom dressed only in a robe and yawning. He passed Mycroft, ignoring the fiery glare of the man. Mycroft turned his glare to his brother when the sound of Jim fussing around in the kitchen clanked and cringed through the air. Sherlock just shrugged. Eventually Jim emerged nursing a cup of coffee. He stopped mid-stride and took in the elder Holmes brother. “You look a bit …” he waved in Mycroft’s general direction “thawed. It’s a good look on you.”

Mycroft shoved another picture at the criminal with a violent snap of his wrist. “Prison will be a bad look on you.”

Jim examined the photograph as if the contents weren’t something he had personally custom ordered. Sherlock rubbed his face in his hands, knowing full well that Jim was critically reviewing the photograph of an ice sculpture of Mycroft bent over his desk being fucked by a likeness of the queen with a strap on.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t take you into custody right now.”

Jim tossed the photo carelessly aside. “I’ll give you two. First. You have no proof. If you examine the photo you got of me and Sherl, you'll find it is timestamped three years ago.”

Sherlock laughed. Of course.

“And two. It's a very good likeness. You should be flattered.”

"I am not flattered," Mycroft snapped.

"At least one version of you thawed out last night," Jim mumbled and took another sip of his coffee.


	14. Kisses

Sherlock pulled Jim from the dance floor to a dim corner of the bar. The base of the music thumped in their chests, competing with their heartbeats. Jim stared up at Sherlock, unnervingly steady and devoid of any emotion save one of focused interest. His back hit the wall and he glanced back for just a moment only to have Sherlock grip his jaw and pull his attention back up to him.

“I like it when you look at me,” Sherlock said and Jim obeyed, looking up at him with those dark bottomless eyes. 

“But you want more than that,” Jim said, tilting his face from Sherlock’s grasp and leaning up, lips stopping a breath away. 

Their mouths hovered near each other, millimeters apart, circling, without touching. “Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice but a sigh of want. He darted forward to capture Jim’s lips, but the man turned his head at the last minute. 

Jim’s gaze dropped, raking up Sherlock’s body from his shoes to the top of his head in one all-seeing graze that dripped with promise. Sherlock pressed his palms flat against the wall behind the criminal, boxing him in. He looked small. He always looked deceptively small.

“Are we playing a game,” he asked, leaning down and letting his nose graze the top of Jim’s hair, inhaling the scent of the product he favored and the heat of his skin.

“Not unless you want to,” Jim sang softly, looking up at Sherlock with that mischevious little half smile. He lifted a hand and traced the line of buttons leading down Sherlock’s shirt in a single graceful motion. His gaze followed the path of his hand and he bit his lip in a way that made Sherlock think of all sorts of not good things his friends would find shocking. 

Sherlock’s body trembled ever so slightly at the touch. Jim loved the way he could pull reactions from this man. Sherlock was his own private instrument which only he knew how to make sing.

“I want to,” Sherlock whispered, moving closer, but still not close enough. His body vibrated with repressed energy and Jim knew he had him. Jim’s body swayed to the side and Sherlock followed without realizing it himself. He was a thing charmed.

“See the bartender,” Jim asked and Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “Flirt with him. Get a couple free drinks out of him.”

Sherlock bit his lip, eyes darting nervously as he thought about it. Finally he nodded and pushed off from the wall, sauntering over to the bar. Jim dropped into a plush couch and watched Sherlock lean over the bar and turn on one of his most charming smiles. He definitely caught the attention of the bartender, which was saying something in a place like this where the staff were used to attempts at charming them out of favors. The bartender seemed resilient at first, but then Sherlock gestured in Jim’s direction and the bartender looked at him. The man grinned and Jim frowned. Sherlock did not just promise something to that man without checking with him first, did he? The bartender slid a couple drinks toward the man and Sherlock returned to Jim carrying them with a triumphant smirk on his lips.

“I said charm him, not barter with him,” Jim snapped.

Sherlock handed Jim one of the drinks and sat down beside him. It wasn’t fair how adorable this man looked when he was irritated. Sherlock took a sip from his drink then pulled Jim toward him. “I just told him I’d left my wallet at home on accident and was trying to seduce you.” He leaned pulled Jim closer and brushed his lips up the man’s thin neck, inhaling the scent of Jim’s cologne. 

“You cheated,” Jim said, but he lifted his chin to give Sherlock better access to his throat.

“You said charm him. You didn’t specify that I had to use my charms to do so,” Sherlock replied, taking advantage of the unspoken permission to nip lightly at the warm skin of Jim’s neck. 

“I’ll give you another,” Jim said with a sigh, the wet hot heat of Sherlock’s mouth sending shivers through his body. 

“Hmmmm…. If you must,” Sherlock said. He planted a hand on Jim’s knee and slid it slowly up his thigh. 

“I-.” Damn the man it was getting hard to think with him pawing at him. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to play this game anymore. He had to push Sherlock back, just to clear his head a moment. “I want the the bar to play nothing but Queen for the next hour.”

Sherlock snorted and stood up. 

“Without you paying him to do so,” Jim amended. “Or mentioning me at all.”

Sherlock huffed, but nodded before he made his way to the DJ booth. Jim put his clothes back in order and shifted in his too tight pants on the couch. He couldn’t get a clear line of sight on Sherlock in the half shadow of the little back room, but a minute later, ‘Under Pressure’ started playing and Sherlock returned triumphantly.

Jim stood up and clapped for the detective and the man spun to the music and did a little bow for him. “Show off,” Jim laughed, but Sherlock wrapped an arm around him and spun him around, guiding him into a dance.

“For you, always,” Sherlock said, cupping Jim’s face and pulling him up on his toes for a kiss. 

Jim moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, the slide of their tongues hot and only making him hungry for more. He let Sherlock lead them, for once, pressing his body close to the detective as they swayed to music and kissed with increasing fervor.

When the kiss broke they were both breathless and still swaying to an ever slowing beat even though the song had changed to Another one bites the dust.

“Anything else you want me to do,” Sherlock said, stealing another quick kiss from Jim’s plush lips. 

Jim opened his eyes drowsily and grinned like the devil. “Yes. Shut up and kiss me again.”

Sherlock slid his hand behind Jim’s head and pulled him close again. “With pleasure.”


	15. Space/Astronomy

He had the best security systems that money could buy, but nothing could beat the instincts and senses of a man who’d spent the majority of his life living in dangerous intrigue outside the law. Jim lifted his head from the equations he’d been scratching out and listened for a moment. He kicked off from the wall, sending his desk chair rolling across the floor from one desk to another. A few quick strokes against his keyboard and the bank of six monitors mounted to the wall sprang to life with security footage. In the bottom right hand screen, the image of Sherlock ascending his stairs, apparently lugging a heavy object of some sort flickered and Jim smiled. 

A key turned in his lock and Jim darkened his monitors with a sharp click. The door opened and Sherlock Holmes slid through his doorway hoisting a large black case inside. He kicked the door closed behind him with one foot and dropped the case with a heavy thud before straightening to his full height. “Surprise,” he said, unwinding his scarf, then tossing his coat onto one of Jim’s plush armchairs.

“Did you bring me a body,” Jim asked, putting one foot up on the desk and leaning back in his chair. “I hate to break it to you, but cadavers are more your thing than mine.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, lifting a handle from the back of the case and rolling it toward Jim, with a second longer case tucked awkwardly under his arm. “I think you’ll approve.” 

Jim followed the motion of the case with his eyes, but refused to move from his lax position. Sherlock stopped less than a meter away and kneeled down to fiddle with the latches of the large case a moment. When he finally swung the case open, Jim's foot dropped to the floor and he leaned forward in his chair with eyes wide. “Is that for me?” 

Sherlock grinned, setting the long case on the floor and flipping it open. “I hope this makes up for the one I broke.” Sherlock pulled the base of telescope out from the case. “Tell me where you want it.”

Jim jumped from his seat and pulled the long lens, a barrel nearly as tall as himself, from the case on the floor. He caressed it with glee. “By the window where Katie used to live.”

Sherlock manuevered the base into place, then took the lens from Jim, installing it into place. “Are you going to name this one?”

“Of course,” Jim said, fiddling with the dials. “Don’t know what it will be. I’ll let it tell me.” He peered into the eyepiece and adjusted the telescope further. 

Sherlock dropped heavily into a chair and stretched out one of his arms. The blasted thing was heavy, but the look on Jim’s face as he gleefully played with his new toy made the hassle worth it. And he did owe the man for killing Katie. 

“Do you like it?”

“Love it,” Jim said, not bothering to look up. “You’re forgiven.”

Sherlock sighed. “You’re going to be spending all your time looking through that thing, aren’t you?”

“Says the man whose always glued to his microscope.”

“The microscopic world is relevant,” Sherlock huffed. 

“So is the macroscopic world,” Jim hummed. He finally lifted his head and looked at Sherlock. The detective beamed under the attention. “Did it come with the cables to connect to my laptop?”

Sherlock pouted, but pulled the cables out of the inner pocket of the rolling case. “Of course.”

Jim smiled with such boyish happiness as he snatched the cables and began hooking up his new toy to a laptop. Sherlock couldn’t help, but feel a twinge of satisfaction seeing Jim look genuinely happy. It was a rare sight. Even so, he resented not receiving more attention.

He sat in silence, watching Jim play for several minutes until he grew uncomfortable. It probably wasn’t normal for a man to feel like a third wheel to a telescope, but then again, neither of them were exactly normal. After another minute of silence, Sherlock stood up and prepared to leave the two of them alone. 

He’d made it as far as opening the door, when Jim called after him. “Stay.”

Sherlock looked back. Jim hadn’t looked up from the eyepiece. “I’ll just be in the way,” Sherlock said.

Jim finally looked up. “I got you something too.”

Sherlock arched a brow and followed Jim’s hand to the package on a far shelf. He stepped back inside and pulled the package from the shelf. A simple cardboard box, but heavy. He pulled out a pocketknife and sliced it open to find a microscope inside. Top of the line.

“What is this for,” Sherlock said, pulling it out and placing it on Jim’s desk. 

“Replacement for the one I broke,” Jim said, returning his attention back to the eyepiece of his telescope.

“When did you break my microscope,” Sherlock asked with a frown.

“This morning,” Jim hummed with innocence.

“How?”

“How is not the question. Why?”

Sherlock huffed. “Okay why?”

“Revenge for Katie,” Jim said with a snicker. “I owed your glass a fall.”

“The telescope was an accident Jim,” Sherlock groaned.

“Your microscope wasn’t.”

Sherlock looked at the gift sitting on the desk. Well, he did replace it. Did he know Sherlock was going to buy him a replacement? He looked at the criminal still glued to the sky. Probably. 

“I have some material from an attempted hit on one of my men,” Jim said, turning his attention to his laptop and tapping on the keys. “An explosion. Would you mind tracing the source for me?” He handed Sherlock a box of ashes. 

Sherlock lit up, but tried to keep his interest from showing on his face. “I suppose,” he said, taking the box and pulling out a package of glass slides from the box. “Since there’s nothing else to do.”

Jim finally looked at him and grinned. “Thank you,” he said.

Sherlock blushed and gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s fine.” He cleared his throat and added, “You’re welcome.”

They each turned their attention back to their respective eyepieces, engrossed in the worlds they found most enthralling. One looking down and in, the other looking up and out.


	16. Fluff

Jim woke to the sound of rain pattering the window of his flat. He stretched out on his couch raising his hands above his head and curling his toes. Lips touched his forehead and a warm hand brushed his hair back from his temple. Jim froze, body going tense, ready for a fight.

“You were out a long time,” Sherlock said, walking to Jim’s kitchen, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants.

Jim relaxed. That’s right. Sherlock was spending the weekend with him. To be a couple. Which was apparently important though Jim still didn’t understand how the act of doing nothing together was supposed to be a bonding experience. 

“Aren’t you bored,” Jim asked, yawning. 

Sherlock returned with two cups of coffee. Jim sat up to accept his, inhaling the rich scent with a satisfied sigh. Sherlock’s long thin fingers caressed up and down the line of Jim’s bare arm. Between the touch and the first sip of fresh hot caffeine, the criminal considered the idea that perhaps the couple thing wasn’t so bad. 

“Hmm. We could go dancing in the rain,” Sherlock said, glancing toward the silver light of the window.

“We’d get wet,” Jim mumbled.

Sherlock sat up and held out his hand. “So?”

Jim scrunched his nose and glanced at the window dubiously, but took Sherlock’s hand. “You want to go out on the street?”

“No. The roof,” Sherlock said, hoisting Jim to his feet.

“Oh? Eager to take another swan dive,” Jim teased.

“Don’t be a brat,” Sherlock said, tossing Jim’s hair as if he were a boy.

Jim grumbled, combing his hair back with his fingers, but he followed the detective up the stairs to the roof of his flat. He brought his coffee with him, clutching it close against his chest to absorb the warmth as he stepped out into the light drizzle. 

Sherlock looked up at the sky and grinned into the rain, then he held out a hand as if they were on a dance floor. Jim laughed, shaking his head and set his cup down beside the door. He crossed the space between them in a few graceful strides and let Sherlock pull him into a waltz. 

“I’m supposed to be the mad one,” Jim said, as Sherlock slid them into a cross step waltz and began to wind Jim around the make shift dace floor, with only the sound of rain and traffic and their own internal metronome to keep beat. 

“Oh this is among the tamest things I’ve done and you know it,” Sherlock said, giving Jim a twirl. He pulled Jim close and lowered him into a dip. “Besides, you like it when I dance for you.”

“I’m not complaining,” Jim said standing on his feet again, grabbing Sherlock and pulling him into a tango. “But I think you’ve led long enough.”

Sherlock laughed and followed along. A couple steps and Sherlock slid his body around Jim’s, pausing, then together they marched forward again. He played up every swing Jim pulled him in, ever lunge, every retreat, staying completely in step to a music only the two of them heard. Jim pulled Sherlock forward into a sultry lunge, when Sherlock grabbed the lead from Jim and immediately started them into a pivot waltz.

Jim giggled, letting Sherlock spin them dizzy, increasing the speed with each pass around the roof until the world was spinning. It was a dance which required the follow to trust the lead, to lean back and hang on for the ride. And Sherlock did not fail to give him a mad ride. He spun them around past the point where it even made sense, the world moving faster and faster around them.

Thunder boomed and the sky broke, sending a downpour over them both. They broke their embrace and instantly fell on their bums to the floor. Drenched they looked at each other through the haze of their tizzy they’d spun themselves into and laughed. Another crack of thunder reverberated and Sherlock scrambled to his feet, helping Jim up, then together running for the shelter of the flat.

Minutes later, with lightning flashing outside the window, Sherlock rubbed a towel over Jim’s hair, kissing his shoulder. Jim pulled the towel away from his face then slid a hand behind Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. “That was fun,” Jim whispered. "Now what will you do for an encore?"

Sherlock grinned, kissing him, his lips tasted like coffee and his skin like rainwater. Jim helped him get out of his wet clothes and soon they were spread out on the sheets of Jim’s bed, warming each other up in slow lazy indulgence as a storm raged outside.


	17. Date Night

It was nicer than he thought it would be. The restaurant, the candles, the bottle of champaign. Sherlock didn’t mind even getting dressed up in one of the high end suits that Jim insisted on buying for him. Jim returned from talking to the manager and sat down across from the detective with a smile. 

“I hope you didn’t get bored waiting,” Jim said with a small smirk, picking up a menu.

“Another minute and there’d have been hell,” Sherlock said and Jim laughed. “We’d be banned from another -“

A quartet of violins began to play “La gazza ladra” and Sherlock froze. “Are you planning to steal our dinner?” When he looked back at Jim, the man looked uncharacteristically nervous. “Oh god. You aren’t are you?”

Jim fiddled with his watch, licked his lips and looked away. “Just one thing I want,” he mumbled.

“Jim, you said this was a date,” Sherlock hissed across the table.

Jim jumped slightly and blinked at Sherlock rapidly. “It is,” he said.

Sherlock's frown vanished when Jim pulled a black velvet box from inside his jacket pocket. Oh god. This was -

A chair was plopped down between the two at the table and a third person sat heavily down, breaking the moment.  
Sherlock blinked then met the gaze of John Watson smiling back at him like he were a cat that had just stolen the cream. “Nice,” he said, looking around the place. “This is really a beautiful place.”

Sherlock’s heart fell when Jim slid the ring box back into his jacket and clutched his butter knife. 

“Did you invite him,” Jim gritted out.

“Oh hi … /Jim/,” John said, giving the criminal a hearty pat on the back which looked more like a half hearted, sideways heimlech. Jim arched a brow and stared at John with incredulity while wiping imaginary dirt from where the doctor had touched him. John ignored him, looking at Sherlock intently. “So special night?”

“John,” Sherlock sighed.

“Need me to read you the wine list?”

“Mycroft told you.”

“Of course Mycroft told me Jim was going to propose to you tonight,” John growled. 

“I’m not,” Jim grumbled.

“Yes you are,” Sherlock snapped, then turned his attention back to his best friend. “If this is some sort of revenge -“

“Oh it is,” John said. He leaned back and motioned to a waiter. “We’ll need another menu. Thank you.”

“Revenge for interrupting your proposal or for pretending to be dead,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms across his chest.

“All of the above,” John said, picking up a piece of bread and buttering it. “Oh and for the explosive vest,” he added, giving Jim a pointed look. 

Jim stared death back at the doctor, but John just smiled. “Go on Jimmy.” He leaned forward. “You can talk now.”

“Please let me kill him,” Jim said.

“No,” Sherlock said and John smirked at Jim. Sherlock sighed. “John. Please. Do you mind?”

“Nope,” John said. “Don’t mind me. Off you two go.”

“I apologized. You punched me and I apologized. We’re even.”

“I don’t see why I can’t kill him a little bit if he punched you,” Jim muttered.

“Kill me a little - how-“ John shook his head and turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Yes. You were a twat. I’ve forgiven you. Now I’m being a twat and you can forgive me.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Oh it is,” John said. He leaned over the table and picked up the wine menu. “Can’t wait to sample the posh vintages of the rich and sociopathic.”


	18. Crack

John had taken Rosie out of town to visit her grandparents for Christmas two weeks ago. He’d be gone another two weeks to ‘catch up’ with family. Sherlock huffed, turning on his side. His own parents had gone on some sort of cruise for the holidays and Mycroft refused to indulge in another pointless familial ritual after the ‘stunt’ Sherlock had pulled that Christmas years ago with the shooting and the helicopters. 

Sherlock sprawled out on his floor, staring at the ceiling. That’s okay. Plenty of things to occupy his mind. Lestrade had notified him of a string of crimes being committed by people dressed as Father Christmas. Sherlock cringed. What had the criminal class come to? He mourned the deteriorating state of his cases as he fell asleep.

He woke to a fire freshly stoked in his fireplace. 

“You didn’t leave anything out for me,” came a familiar sly drawl. “I’m famished.”

Sherlock sat up and found Jim sitting in his chair, dressed in a Father Christmas outfit, sipping tea. “I’m not feeling hospitable.”

“Rude.” Jim sat the tea down in its saucer and smirked. “Looks like someone's going on the naughty list.”

“You’re dead,” Sherlock snapped.

“And you’re wallowing in self-pity on Christmas Eve,” Jim retorted, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs in a manner which would be prim if he weren’t dressed in such a ludicrous getup. “Hardly one to throw stones.”

“I’m hallucinating,” Sherlock muttered. “I took too much.”

“Obviously,” Jim drawled. “Must have got the cheap stuff this time. The whole milieu is a bit…  
subpar.”

Sherlock got to his feet and paced the room, examining the criminal who just looked back at him with a bored expression. “My subconscious brought you up. Why?”

“Maybe you want to sit on Santa’s lap,” Jim said, patting his thighs. “Come on then. Tell me what you want.”

“Nothing from you,” Sherlock growled. 

Jim laughed. “Denial! How predictably dull.”

“You look ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped.

“You look like Anderson,” Jim snapped back.

Sherlock froze. “Did you know Anderson?”

Jim shrugged. “I doubt it. Does it matter? Still stings, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock snorted, snatching the hat from Jim’s head and tossing it aside. Jim gave him a glare, but Sherlock planted a knee between his legs and leaned over him with glee. “If you’re a hallucination, that means you’re at my mercy.”

Jim stared back at him with large, dark, unblinking eyes. “That would be true,” he said softly, “if you didn’t hate yourself so much.”

The world shook, Sherlock stumbled, and the next thing he knew he was falling through the floor into a honey warm void that seemed to go on forever. He landed with a heavy thump into what felt like a pile of pillows. He jumped to his feet and held his hands out in the dark, finding a soft fabric stretch against his palms. He thrashed in folds and folds of fabric, nearly swimming through it until he emerged into fresh night air with a gasp.

“Oh good, you’re up,” Jim said, grinning down at him.

Sherlock gaped. The criminal looked huge. Then he looked down at himself, partially emerged from a giant linen bag and realized the truth. No. He was tiny. 

“What have you done to me,” he shouted up at the criminal who snapped the reigns in his hands. The sleigh jolted and Sherlock held on for dear life as they ascended into the sky.

“Very cheap smack this time Sherlock,” Jim tutted. He shoved his hand into the sack, jostling Sherlock who realized with some alarm that he had pointed ears and was wearing something shockingly green. 

“I’m an elf,” Sherlock squeaked. 

Jim pulled a black cannon ball sized cartoon bomb from the sack and lit the fuse. “You’re my little helper tonight,” he said with manic glee. He tossed the bomb carelessly over his shoulder and somewhere below them an explosion reverberated like thunder as the sky lit up for a moment. 

Sherlock realized he was holding sticks of lit dynamite and he jumped, tossing them overboard. A series of smaller explosions echoed below. “But it’s Christmas,” he said.

“I know,” Jim said with glee, then his face fell. “Oh you mean, it’s actually Christmas.” He pat Sherlock on the head, then pulled a grenade out from within his suit, pulling the pin with his teeth. “We’re spreading good cheer.” He tossed the grenade over the side.

“I don’t think the people of London would agree,” Sherlock shouted.

“London?” Jim scoffed, offended. “We’re going global baby. Now pull me out a heat seeker from the bag and let’s get this party started.”

Suddenly they were surrounded by black MI6 helicopters. 

“Shit,” Jim hissed and pulled the reigns, sending the sleigh tilting a hard right. 

“Sherlock Holmes. You are ordered to stand down and stop ruining Christmas,” boomed Mycroft’s voice from the lead helicopter.

“He’ll never take us alive,” Jim said. “Hold the reigns.”

“What? No Jim!” But Sherlock reflexively grabbed the gigantic leather straps as they fell down on him. He braced his feet against the dash and held onto the reigns for dear life as Jim pulled an impossibly large rocket launcher out of the bag, hoisted it on his shoulder, and stood up in the sleigh to aim at Mycroft’s helicopter.

“Stop,” Sherlock screamed, but in a thick rush of smoke the missile flew from the sled and exploded into Mycroft’s helicopter, bursting into flames which lit up the sky.

Sherlock threw himself to the side of the sleigh and watched as his brother’s helicopter plummeted, over the speakers Mycroft’s voice called out “I’m tellingggggg muuuuummmmy!”

“What did you do,” Sherlock screamed at Jim, but the man only grinned back at him.

“What did /you/ do Sherlock?”

“It wasn’t me… it-“

“What did you do Sherlock,” Jim repeated a little more woodenly. The reigns slipped from his hands.

“Jim?” The sleigh began to drift, then plummet toward the ground.

“What did you do?” He sounded like Mycroft now.

Sherlock tried to grab the reigns, but they turned into licorice ropes in his hands, then melted. The ground came up faster and faster and then -

“SHERLOCK HOLMES WHAT DID YOU DO,” Myrcoft screamed and Sherlock jerked awake on the floor to find his brother holding his syringe in his hand and glaring down at him.

“You’re not dead,” Sherlock said.

“Surprisingly, neither are you,” Mycroft said with a grimace. He held out his hand. “Give me your list.”

Sherlock pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket and handed it to his brother. “Be sure to check it twice,” he said with a small smile.  
Mycroft glared back, unamused.

Sherlock huffed, thinking that Jim would have probably found it funny.


	19. Games

“Never have I ever…stolen the crown jewels of England,” Sherlock said, smiling at Jim with a smugly.

Jim rolled his eyes and took a shot. “It’s cheating if you pick something you already know,” he said, licking his lips. 

Sherlock refilled Jim’s shot glass with whiskey. “Then why did you drink?”

“Just leveling the playing field,” Jim said, smiling coyly at the detective. “Never have I ever had a crush on my room mate.”

Sherlock glared at Jim, but took a shot. 

“Knew it,” the criminal snorted, refilling Sherlock’s glass.

“Never have I ever obsessed over a boy for over a decade before saying hello,” Sherlock said pointedly.

Jim stared back at him, smiling serenely.

“You have to drink,” Sherlock said.

“No I don’t,” Jim said with a shrug.

“You’re saying you weren’t obsessed with me for over a decade?”

“I said hello to you.”

“When?”

“One Christmas holiday when you were home. You were in the town library. I sat beside you.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “And you talked to me?”

“I tried,” Jim said with a faraway smile. “I said hello. I got a cold shoulder.” He noticed the blush on Sherlock’s face and tapped the shot glass. “Drink up.”

Sherlock took the shot, then cleared his throat. 

“Are you okay,” Jim asked. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped. “Never have I-“

“My turn.”

Sherlock flushed. “Sorry.”

“You are a light weight,” Jim said with a laugh.

“Shut-up.”

“Never have I ever forgotten that I have a sibling.”

Sherlock glared at Jim. “I thought it was cheating to to pick something you already know.”

“OK~ay, fine,” Jim sighed. He took his shot, then grabbed Sherlock’s and downed that one too.

Sherlock refilled the glasses and scanned Jim warily. What kind of tolerance did he have? “We should have played with cocaine,” Sherlock grumbled.

Jim imperceptibly twitched, then gave a lazy shrug.

Sherlock cocked his head. That was interesting. “Never have I ever not enjoyed taking cocaine,” he said.

Jim twitched again, then sighed and took a shot.

“Bad experience?”

“I was young. I didn’t know I’d been dosed with it. It was not a ... good thing,” Jim said flatly.

“I take it you had your revenge on the perpetrator later.”

Jim’s face lit up with one of his most angelic smiles. “It’s still your turn.”

Sherlock smirked. “Never have I ever killed someone for revenge.”

“Cute,” Jim said, taking another shot.

“Never have I ever …” Sherlock paused, frowning. 

Jim eyed Sherlock curiously. “Yes dear?”

“Pursued someone I wanted,” he finished looking away. Jim didn’t take a shot. Sherlock didn’t expect him to. He grabbed his shot glass and downed it, then grabbed Jim’s and drank that one too.

“You only needed to drink one,” Jim said. 

“I know,” Sherlock muttered.

Jim chuckled. “Never have I ever needed liquid courage to kiss someone I wanted.”

Sherlock stiffened and met Jim’s gaze. The criminal was smug, but he didn’t appear to be making fun of him. Sherlock refilled his shot glass and took a shot.

Jim uncrossed his legs and sat back in his chair. “Never have I ever wanted to crawl onto a criminal’s lap.”

Sherlock gaped, but Jim’s face was completely neutral. Sherlock refilled the shot glass and lifted it to his lips. He paused, then got up and straddled Jim’s lap. One of the man’s hands rest on his thigh, the other on the small of his back as Sherlock tipped the shot glass back, downing it. He set the glass down and leaned down to whisper, his lips millimeters from Jim’s. “Still your turn.”

“You’re drunk,” Jim said.

“So? So what,” Sherlock said. “Keep going.”

Jim rubbed Sherlock’s back. “I think you should go to bed.”

“Yes,” Sherlock hummed, curling closer to Jim and sliding his fingers through his black hair. “Keep playing the game.”

Jim kissed Sherlock softly on the lips and he melted into it. A moment later Jim pulled away. “Never have I ever taken advantage of someone who's drunk.”

Sherlock took a shot, then blinked in surprise when he saw Jim take one as well. 

He gave Sherlock’s rump a playful smack. “Off to bed with you. We’re done.”

“No,” Sherlock said wriggling on Jim’s lap.

Jim planted a finger on Sherlock’s forehead and pushed him back, sending him crashing to the floor in an undignified tangle. “Oh yes. We’re done,” he said with a laugh.

He slung one of Sherlock’s arms over his shoulder and led him back to his bedroom. Sherlock stumbled, finding it difficult to move, but knowing he wanted Jim to stay with him. When he plopped onto the bed he whined. “I want you,” he whispered to Jim.

“I know,” Jim said with a devilish grin. “If you can still admit that in the morning, I’m game.”

He closed the door behind him and Sherlock pouted. He listened to Jim’s footsteps recede then smiled when he heard the man settle onto his couch. “In the morning,” Sherlock mumbled to himself. “The game is on.”


	20. The Borgias Pearl

Sherlock pressed his forehead to his forearms and bit his lip as Jim caressed his bottom and slid another pearl into him. 

“Where does Mycroft think the pearl is,” Jim teased softly before circling Sherlock’s hole with his tongue.

Sherlock gasped, his toes curling. “He - he thinks I couldn’t find it.”

Jim chuckled with smug delight. He pushed the largest pearl at the end of the string, the unusually large black natural pearl, into him. “Should have looked deeper then,” he said, caressing the swell of one cheek with his palm before giving it a sharp smack. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to exchange a barb, but Jim had begun running his teeth along his taint, then sucking on the flesh there, and all he could manage was a strangled moan. Jim gave his flank another smack. “Arch your back honey, the visual is part of the appeal.”

“Let me - ah touch you and I’ll give you appeal,” Sherlock groaned out, but at another smack he obliged the man, arching his back and lifting his arse. 

“Next time,” Jim whispered. “Right now, you’re my toy.” He teased his fingers up Sherlock’s spine as he moved in front of him. He slid his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and pulled to lift his head to look up at him. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, but he drank in the sight of Jim looking down at him, bare except for a tantalizing pair of hip hugging gray briefs. He could smell Jim’s arousal through the thin fabric. 

“My eyes are up here,” Jim chided.

“I’m aware,” Sherlock said, diving forward to snap the waistband in his teeth and pull Jim’s erection free.

“Not in the rules,” Jim said, slapping Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock took the half-hearted blow without so much as a blink and immediately enveloped the man’s tantalizing cock into his mouth, earning a strangled hiss from above. “Brat,” Jim panted out and if Sherlock’s mouth weren’t so full he’d smile in triumph when he felt the man’s body give in to him just a bit.

When Jim leaned forward, hugging his head and thrusting into his mouth, Sherlock thought he’d won, until Jim slid his finger into Sherlock’s well lubed arse and nudged the pearls against his prostate. Sherlock moaned around Jim’s cock, but when Jim began to slowly pull the pearls out, he couldn’t hold back and pulled away, pressing his forehead to the mattress and panting raggedly as his stiffening erection began to leak beneath him.

“There you go,” Jim cooed. “I trust I have your attention.” He massaged his fingers through Sherlock’s already tussled hair as he continued to slowly pull out another pearl on the string before pushing them back in again. “On your back now.”

Sherlock whined, but Jim gave his hair a tug. With reluctance, the detective turned around, laying on his back and holding his legs up under the knees so he’d be fully open for Jim to do what he will.

Jim winked at Sherlock with a crooked little smile that for reasons the detective could not begin to decipher always made his heart rate skip up a cadence. Jim popped open the bottle of lubricant and dripped a generous addition at his hole. He worked it inside with his fingers, nudging the beads as he pushed more and more into him. Sherlock bit his lip and his head fell back onto the mattress as Jim relentlessly toyed with him. “Enough! Fuck me already.”

Jim froze, meeting Sherlock’s flustered gaze with a mischievous twinkle. “Oh Sherlock,” he gently chastised. “That’s very rude.” He pushed his fingers in deep, nudging him in just the right way. Sherlock cried out with pleasure and barely heard Jim hum, “You’re not giving the orders tonight remember?”

“Please,” Sherlock whispered.

Jim licked up the underside of Sherlock’s erection, then immediately swallowed him down while simultaneously pushing two fingers up inside of him to the knuckle, manipulating the pearls. Sherlock bit his lip and keened, but stopped trying to take control. His surrender was rewarded with a swirl of Jim’s tongue.

Sherlock’s breath stuttered as he watched Jim’s head move up and down his shaft, felt the stubble of his cheek brush his thighs, those long dark eyelashes flutter up to meet his eyes. He wasn’t sure how he looked, spread out like this, but judging from the way Jim’s already dark eyes dilated to pure ebony, it must have pleased him. He sucked up to the tip of Sherlock’s cock and flicked the tip of his tongue along the tip as he slowly pulled the string out of him one pearl at a time. Sherlock’s legs trembled and he couldn’t help but moan and gasp on each breath. Jim sucked him down completely, deep throating him as he pulled the last pearl out and Sherlock screamed, coming violently into the wet heat, as the world went black.

He was only out for a few moments, waking to Jim kissing up his stomach and chest. “Was that fun,” Jim cooed. 

“Ah…,” Sherlock started laughing. 

Jim curled over him, brushing his hair back out of his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, then kissed him.

Sherlock moaned into the kiss, tasting himself. He wrapped an arm around Jim and pulled him down, against him. He reached down and cupped Jim’s stiff erection. “Mmmm… you should steal jewels more often,” he said.

Jim squirmed, thrusting into Sherlock’s hand. “Developed a taste for defiling world treasures have you?”

Sherlock rolled them, pinning Jim beneath him. “With you? Oh yes,” he said, stroking him slowly while he sucked a series of bruises around Jim’s throat.


	21. Meeting Family

Jim shifted in his sleep, a small alarm in the back of his mind pulling him toward consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw Sherlock’s face inches from his own, sleeping peacefully. It should have reassured him, but something nagged. Something at the foot of the bed. He glanced down toward their feet and there she was, crouched at the end of the bed like some sort of medieval demon, grinning back at him through disheveled hair.

“Hello again,” she said, quirking her head like a bird of prey honing in on potential prey.

“Good morning Eurus,” Jim said, sitting up and rubbing his hands down his face with a yawn. He squinted at the clock. “What time is it.”

“Late. Early. Not sure really. You’re alive. You tricked me.”

“I tricked everyone beautiful.” Jim waved a hand dismissively. “It’s what I do.”

“I am not everyone,” she said, her tone and body language so flat it was impossible to determine whether she was unhappy.

Sherlock groaned, stirring in his sleep. Jim rolled his eyes. The detective had always been a heavy sleeper. Sherlock cracked open one brilliant blue eye drowsily.

“Here comes the drama,” Jim muttered.

As soon as Sherlock saw who Jim was talking to he sat bolt upright in bed. The sheet slipped down a little too far and he yanked it back up around his waist. “What are you doing here,” Sherlock hissed at his sister.

“James is alive,” she said, blinking at her brother as if that simple explanation was obviously enough to excuse her presence. 

“Does Mycroft know you’re here,” Sherlock grumbled, searching for his phone at the bedside table.

Eurus pulled it out from her white sweatshirt, dangling it in front of the detective. He snatched it away with a growl. Sherlock pressed Mycroft’s phone contact and the lights in the room began to strobe. 

“Nice,” Jim hummed with a crooked grin and Eurus almost beamed under the praise.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Eurus interrupted him. “I reprogrammed it. One of your contacts detonates a bomb under Scotland Yard.” She ducked her head like a child and smiled like a mischievous toddler. “I won’t tell you which one.”

Sherlock huffed, tossing the phone to the side. He softened his approach. “What do you want?”

In a flash she pounced on Jim, straddling him and running her hands over his face, lacing her fingers through his hair as she leaned so close her nose brushed with his. “Oh. Wow,” she said. “I didn’t get to touch you last time.” 

Jim grinned back up at her with amusement glittering in his dark eyes. “Hello little supernova,” he cooed as she circled her nose around his.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “That’s mine,” he growled.

Eurus didn’t break her fixation on Jim’s face “Share him,” she ordered.

“No.”

Eurus curled up in Jim’s lap, resting her head on his chest as she stared at her brother. “Are you being greedy again? I don’t like it when you’re greedy Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide in horror and Jim just laughed, shaking his head. She sat up and looked at him solemnly. “I’m sorry, but I might have to kill you to teach Sherlock not to be mean to me.”

“You can try,” Jim hummed, brushing back a strand of her long dark hair behind her shoulder. “It might be fun.” Her lips twitched near imperceptibly. 

“Jim stop encouraging her,” Sherlock snapped.

“Oh come on,” Jim sighed. “Someone has to. Your family has practically kept her in sensory deprivation.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to share you with her!”

Eurus’s brows furrowed as she regarded her brother. Jim felt a building vibration building in her body and he pat her arm so she looked back at him. “He means sex,” he said.

“Oh!” She paused a moment then her head snapped toward Sherlock. “It’s not fair that I can only have sex with him, but can’t play with him.”

Sherlock paled. Jim laughed. 

“He’s my boyfriend Eurus,” Sherlock hissed. “You are not sleeping with him.”

“Why are you dull,” she hissed, lunging at her brother.

Jim grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back onto his lap. She looked down at him, her breath ragged with rage. “Hey,” Jim said and her attention snapped to him. “Protocol brilliant girl. Some people have autonomy. Ask me, not your brother.”

“Play with me,” she said softly, caressing his face. 

“Okay,” Jim said with a smile.

“Jim,” Sherlock hissed.

Jim frowned at Sherlock. “Make some tea.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Jim tussled Eurus hair. “Are you aware of the sex trafficking ring in Italy?”

“Of course,” Eurus said, glancing up at her disarrayed hair as if the affectionate gesture were indecipherably foreign.

“Your big brothers can’t be mad if our game involves seeing who can remotely manipulate one of the cells into turning themselves in first, can they?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “Is that how they define good today?”

“It is,” Jim said, patting her side to coax her off of him as he pulled on his pants. He shot Sherlock a look and shook his head in the direction of the study.

Sherlock finally caught up. “Oh. Oh! Right.” He got dressed as well. He followed his boyfriend and his sister into the study, still slightly confused, but staying silent as he gathered more data. He made tea as they took the two seats by the fireplace, firing up dueling laptops.

Jim smiled at Eurus and held up a finger. “Eight hours. Winner picks dinner?”

“Four hours. Winner picks lunch. Mycroft will discover I’m gone in five hours thirteen minutes.”

“Deal,” Jim said, but Eurus frowned ever so slightly as she looked at her brother returning into the room. Jim took his tea from Sherlock and shot a pointed look up at him. “Sherlock won’t tattle on you, will you dear?”

Sherlock met Eurus’s questioning gaze and shook his head. “No. My sister is visiting. Pointless to bother him over something so trivial.”

“Ready,” Jim said.

Eurus nodded and they both zeroed in on their laptops. The sound of fingers typing over keys was near thunderous as the two of them took off. Sherlock watched them for a few moments, then flopped on the couch, opening his own laptop to monitor the progress of their contest.

About an hour in, Eurus broke the silence of the room. “If you marry my brother, you become my brother too,” she said as a matter of fact without looking up from her screen or stopping the rapid motion of her fingers. “That is how it works, isn’t it?”

Jim smiled. “That’s how it works,” he said without looking up.

Eurus glanced over the edge of her screen and beamed at Jim. “Good.”

If she had a tail, it would wag. Sherlock stared, trying to make sure what he saw was real. It was the first time he’d ever seen his sister look happy.


	22. Tiny Differences

There were more freckles on the back of his neck. He’d spent significant time somewhere sunny. He had lines around his eyes now. Laugh lines. Had Jim spent his time away laughing at the world? Sherlock brushed his fingers over Jim’s hair very softly and the man shifted in his sleep. Sherlock took advantage of the moment to guide Jim’s head to rest against his chest. Finding success, he kept very still and relaxed, waiting for Jim to settle into the new position. His breathing evened, his face relaxed and Sherlock dared to touch Jim’s black hair again. Softer than it looked. His hairline was receding a bit, making his widow’s peak more pronounced. It suited him. The stubble peppering Jim’s face was a bit thicker than he used to wear it. That too suited him. 

Sherlock raked his eyes down Jim’s bare body sprawled out, one leg hooked around Sherlock’s. Leaner than he was before, but more muscle tone. The body sculpting looks like it was designed, so Jim must have taken on a personal trainer at some time. Vanity. Jim was fighting back against the onset of middle age. It appeared to be natural, so Sherlock didn’t need to be concerned. Though he wondered who could possibly be the personal trainer of Jim Moriarty. 

He counted the scars next. Three additions of varying age just from behind. A knife wound in his shoulder was the oldest, not too deep, so whoever attacked him hadn’t kept the upper hand for long. A small burn mark where a bullet had grazed his thigh. Might have happened a year or two ago. So he hadn’t been professionally idle either. Sherlock smiled with a bit of pride at that, neither he nor Mycroft had caught on that Jim had spun a new web in the shadows. The third scar was on his foot. Coral had cut his foot … wind surfing.

After so many years dead to the world, Jim had changed in a hundred tiny ways and Sherlock felt cheated of every second that marked the man he finally had in his arms, in his bed, in his life. That was the biggest difference of all and the one Sherlock felt most grateful for. Yet as he cataloged the tiny differences in his lover’s body, he mourned the time they wasted apart. 

Jim shifted against his chest then opened his eyes, looking up at Sherlock with eyes glittering with sharp intelligence and so dark they felt bottomless. Jim met Sherlock’s gaze in silent intensity and it made Sherlock feel like he was falling. Sherlock’s breath caught, remembering to breath a little late and Jim smirked smugly, knowing, seeing, straight through his heart. 

That. That would never change.


	23. Story Time

Jim was in the middle of a crucial negotiation when his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was rude, but he idly checked the screen while the art thief before him droned on about his prowess, unveiling another stolen work with a little too much flourish. Sherlock. Jim declined the call then turned his attention back to the show. 

A couple hours later, safely on his private jet back to England Sherlock called again. Jim smiled. Poor dear must be upset if he were calling rather than texting.

“Sherlock,” Jim said in his most flat idle tone. “What do you want?”

He heard Sherlock inhale sharply. Oh boy, here it came. “You said you’d be home yesterday,” Sherlock said, clearly irritated, but trying, failing, to not let it show. 

“Work went long. I’m on my way back now. Are you okay?”

Sherlock hesitated. “No. I’m fine. Of course I’m fine. It’s just not like you to be tardy.”

Jim grinned, leaning back in his seat. “Are you lonely Sherlock?” His attendant brought him another glass of wine and Jim took a small sip as he listened to the detective sputter and protest.

“If you’re fine, then I’ll leave you to whatever you’re doing,” Sherlock snapped.

“What are you wearing,” Jim asked.

“What?”

“You heard me sexy. What are you wearing?”

“Clothes,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Oh? Clothes. Sounds kinky,” Jim teased.

“Jim-“

“Lose them,” Jim ordered taking another sip as Sherlock’s breath audibly caught on the other end of the line. 

“I- uh.” Sherlock was likely doing that stunned blinking slightly blushing thing. Jim closed his eyes and drank in the image.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then undress for me Sherlock.”

Jim heard Sherlock walk across the flat and turn the lock in his door. Then more steps, to his bedroom from the sound of it, and another door closing. The quality of the sound changed when Sherlock put his phone to speaker and the sound of rustling began.

“Slowly,” Jim said. “Imagine I’m the one undressing you.”

“This is silly,” Sherlock muttered.

“It is,” Jim agreed. “Be silly with me Sherlock. I’m unbuttoning your shirt now.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said. A few moments later he said, “It’s off.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Oh that was hot.”

“I'm sorry. I don’t know how to - to do - this kind of thing.” The poor thing sounded horribly flustered in the awkward not sexy way.

“Fine. Fine,” Jim said. “New story. I have a gun to your head.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Sherlock,” Jim purred dipping his voice soft and dangerous. “I’ve got a gun to your head. All of your friends have been captured and if you don’t do /every-thing/ I want in the next thirty minutes, then everyone goes boom.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. Jim was nearly ready to give up when he heard Sherlock growl. “What do you want from me Moriarty?”

“That’s the spirit Sherl. Now strip for me and get on the bed.” Jim grinned, shooing off the attendant who came to check on him.

“No,” Sherlock said. 

“No? Oh. Well, say good bye to John.”

“I don’t care what you do with me, but you’ll let my friends go.”

Jim chuckled. “Be a good boy for daddy and everyone gets to live. You included.”

The sound of cloth rustling and the creak of the bed followed. “I’ll be good,” he said. “If you uphold your end of the bargain.”

“I always keep my word,” Jim drawled, he let the words linger, listening to Sherlock’s breathing before he began. “Look at you all sprawled out just for me. When was the last time anyone touched you.”

“Last week,” Sherlock replied.

“Really? That’s surprising,” Jim hummed. “What was the occasion?”

“I have a boyfriend,” Sherlock said, a hint of amusement edging into his voice. “I’ll have to warn you Moriarty, he’s very possessive. He’ll probably kill you for touching me.”

“He sounds scary,” Jim said.

“Very.”

“Well I’ll deal with him later,” Jim hummed rubbing his half hard cock through his trousers. “Right now. You’re mine. I believe there’s a vibrator in the beside table.”

“How do you know about that,” Sherlock said with feigned shock that was almost convincing. 

“I’m always breaking into your flat and rifling through your unmentionables sexy. Now take it out and put it between your pretty lips.”

He heard the pull of the drawer and Sherlock settle on the bed. A few moments later he heard the wet sucking noise of his boyfriend fellating the toy close to the phone. 

“That’s a pretty sight,” Jim hummed. “Now I’ve pressed the barrel of the gun to your forehead and grabbed your hair. You’re going to take my prick out of my pants and suck on it like its that toy.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he heard an uptick in the enthusiasm of the wet sounds of his mouth on the vibrator. “You’ve taken my hair and are fucking my mouth,” he gasped out before working on the toy again.

Jim bit his lip. Damnit. He wished he had cameras in Sherlock’s flat. He shifted in his seat. “That’s right sexy,” he said. “I’m skull fucking you. Using that mouth of yours like my own personal fuck toy.” He paused then caught the sound of something distinctive. “I didn’t tell you that you could wank yourself off,” he snapped.

“Sorry,” Sherlock gasped. 

“Oh, that was naughty,” Jim teased. “Does your boyfriend know what an eager little cock slut you are?”

Sherlock chuckled dryly. “I think he has suspicions.”

“I’ve pulled my prick out of your eager mouth and grabbed your hips, tossing you onto your back.”

He heard Sherlock shift on the bed. “You’ve had your fun with me Moriarty. It’s over,” he gasped out.

“Oh we’re just getting started Sherlock,” Jim said with menacing softness. “I’ve got a finger inside you now. I’m leaning over you and watching your face as I stretch you open.”

Sherlock groaned, then grit out. “You can have my body, but you’ll never have my mind.”

Jim froze. “What?”

“What?”

Jim laughed. “Did you read that somewhere?”

“Isn’t everything we’re doing something we’ve read somewhere?”

“Point taken,” Jim said. “Okay. You’ve said that. Now I grab you by the hair, lean in menacingly and tell you ‘I’ll have both’.

“You’re going to go with that?”

“Shut up. I’m ravaging you.”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed.

“Head in the game baby. I’m rubbing the head of my cock over your arse.”

“Wait.” 

“What?” 

“I need lubricant.”

“Oh. Right,” Jim bit his lip. “Um… I think we were running low before I left. Is there enough?”

“Hold on,” Sherlock said and the sound of rustling and drawers being opened went on for an awkwardly long time. Jim sighed as he listened, lifting his nails and noting that he needed to get a manicure when he got home.

Finally Sherlock returned to the phone huffing. “We’re out.”

“Fuck,” Jim hissed.

“I can use vaseline.”

“You used the last tub in that awful experiment which made the whole flat smell last week,” Jim said.

“You were supposed to pick some up,” Sherlock sulked. Jim heard the man flop against the bed. 

“Work. Besides doesn’t John do your shopping?”

“Not for lubricant Jim! He’s expressly said the less he knows about our sex life the better.”

Jim sighed. “Well I’ll pick some up on my way home.”

Sherlock huffed. “How far out are you?” Jim could picture him pouting. 

“An hour to land, another twenty minutes to get through city traffic.”

“So if I went out now, it would be pointless because you’d already be on your way here.”

“Pretty much,” Jim said. “Sorry.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then he said, “I’ve got you tied up.”

“What?”

“You heard me Jim. I’ve captured the notorious criminal James Moriarty and he’s tied to a chair.”

Jim laughed.

Sherlock’s voice dipped lower. “I’ve tied you up and opened your trousers. I’m sliding my hand down your pants.”

Jim’s heart rate jumped. He opened his trousers and palmed himself. “Okay. Do you really think I’ll tell you anything detective?”

“Oh I have ways to make you talk Moriarty,” Sherlock said, low and sultry.

“Is that so,” Jim hummed lazily, stroking himself slowly. “Do tell.”


	24. Hurt/Comfort

“It’s them. I’m sending Lestrade the text,” John whispered, holding his pistol close to his body and eyeing the back loading bay of the warehouse they had managed to bypass a dozen armed guards to finally reach. 

“It will be too late by the time they arrive,” Sherlock said, flattening himself against the shadowed recess of a wall. He counted the men, timed their pace, estimated their artillery and the training of those holding it. He formulated three possible plans and was about to suggest one to John when the target warehouse exploded. John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him behind a shipping container just in time to avoid the shrapnel and flames which shot by them. 

“You okay,” John asked, jumping to his feet.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “That was unexpected.” 

The sound of gunfire and confused shouts clamored in the yard. John peered around the corner then dove back down beside Sherlock on the ground. “Was that Mycroft’s doing?”

“No,” Sherlock said, his brows furrowing as he processed the turn of events. 

“I thought the two cartels were at a truce for this job.”

“The explosion came from inside the building. It wasn’t either side, they wouldn’t blow themselves up. Especially for such a small side project.”

“They stole one ton of gold. Hardly small,” John scoffed.

“For them it is. There’s a third party involved.”

“Who?”

Sherlock grimaced. “I don’t know.”

Sirens filled the air and the sound of the chaos increased in volume as the criminals began to flee. A man with a semiautomatic rifle ran past them without so much as a glance in their direction. John tapped Sherlock’s shoulder and silently gestured toward a path between a couple buildings away from the main action, toward the approaching police sirens. Sherlock followed, catching glimpses of the scene, trying to put together the why of the events. 

John smiled, holstering his gun when he saw Lestrade. The two men chatted while Sherlock watched the last stragglers get cornered and cuffed by Scotland Yard. Seeing his friends distracted, Sherlock grabbed a police jacket and hat from an open car, then followed one of the ringleaders he recognized as he was pushed into a police vehicle. Sherlock ducked his head down and slid into the driver’s seat when the officer ran to help one of her co-workers struggle with an unruly arrest.

Sherlock adjusted the mirror and glanced back at the prisoner. “Care to tell me what happened?”

“I’m not telling you nothing,” the man in the back spat.

“The explosion wasn’t part of the plan,” Sherlock said, sweeping his gaze over the man behind him. He was dressed for business, not battle. His eyes shifted nervously. He was scared. “Afraid of the third party are you? I would be.”

The man’s eyes widened. “You’re with him.”

Sherlock smirked. He had an in. “You screwed up.”

The man laughed. “So have you. He’s dead by now. We both lose.”

Sherlock swept another critical gaze over the man and took a leap. “You were never going to keep your side of the bargain.”

“Neither were you.”

Sherlock scoffed, keeping up the pretense of his part. The key to finding out the identity of the third party could be most easily tracked through the body. “You said he’s dead. Tell me where the body is.” 

“Piss off.”

Sherlock turned around in the driver seat and spread a thin gleeful smile on his face. “My buddies and I could pin this all on you.”

“Dirty cop, eh?”

Sherlock grinned. “No one would believe that.” He turned up his most reasonable scumbag charm. “Come on. It’s just a body. Tell me where it is and we each walk away. This is over.”

The man looked out the window. “You leave my people alone and we leave you alone. Just like that?” He laughed bitterly. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

Yes, Sherlock thought, but he said “No.” He turned around and put his hand on the door. “If you won’t tell me, someone else will. They’ll have the truce and you’ll have nothing.” He lifted the handle and the lights in the car came on.

“Wait,” the man said.

It took six hours to go through the motions of talking with Lestrade, talking theory on the case with John at Baker Street just long enough for his friend to be convinced that Sherlock was still processing the data. He waited twenty minutes after John had left Baker Street and returned home before he ventured out to the address he’d been given. From the description it sounded as if the body was secure and unlikely to be disturbed, so he knew he could afford to wait before inspecting the scene which would no doubt give him clues to the mysterious third party which had interrupted an otherwise routine case. 

He reached the address within forty minutes. He paid the cabby and sent him on his way, then examined the fenced property. He sighed. Another warehouse. Why was it always at a warehouse. This one was dark and silent, with no sign of security of any kind. Sherlock found a broken place in the fence and entered the property cautiously. When he got closer he saw the faint glow of a propane lights dimly highlighting a window on the upper floor. 

Sherlock pulled out the confiscated cartel pistol he’d lifted from the police vehicle and cautiously made his way up the stairs. Looking up a winding set of metal stairs, a thin shaft of light shone from an open door three floors up. When he reached the landing, he peered through the crack of light into a wide empty warehouse floor. A lantern and chair sat in the center of the room. Scattered no the floor were at least five bodies, none of them moving.

Sherlock stepped into the room and the barrel of a derringer pressed against the back of his head. 

“Stupid,” a voice rasped behind him.

“I’m here to help,” Sherlock said and the voice behind him cursed. He held his hands up and turned around slowly. Then his heart stopped.

Doubled over, holding his ribs, covered in blood, some of which spilled into one closed eye, stood Jim Moriarty, mostly alive and holding a gun out from a shaking hand.

“Fuck off Sherlock,” the man hissed, then started to cough blood.

“Let me see,” Sherlock said, falling to his knees and gingerly pressing his fingers against Jim’s chest. 

Jim’s hand dropped and he fell into a coughing fit, slumping to the floor wearily. “I said fuck off,” he gasped.

“You have at least one broken rib.” He scanned Jim’s face, usually so stoic, wincing in pain. “Were you part of the cartel deal tonight?”

Jim laughed. “I was the deal.” His laughter broke into rasping coughs, every breath the man took was a wheeze. “I was the merchandise.”

Sherlock froze. “They were going to kill you tonight?”

Jim’s grimace somehow still looked smug. “They tried.” He gestured weakly to the room of bodies.

Sherlock glanced back at the array of armed men. “Impressive,” he said. “I didn’t take you for a fighter.”

“I’m not. I manipulated them into killing each other.” He gave Sherlock an impish smile and shrugged. “Mistimed it. I got caught in the crossfire.”

Sherlock put it all together. “Then you called in a proverbial airstrike on the cartel when it was time to exchange payment.” Impressive. Jim had taken them all out armed with nothing but his words. 

Jim opened his mouth to reply but fell into another coughing fit and doubled over, spittle of blood staining Sherlock’s shirt. He looked as though he were about to pass out, but Sherlock held him up and gave his cheek rapid little slaps. “Stay awake for me Jim.”

——————————————

Jim was surprised to be alive when he awoke. Even more surprised to find he was alive, with his ribs bound, his wounds dressed, and tucked in the bed of Sherlock Holmes with a light breeze tossing the curtains from the open window. The sounds of the daily noise of Baker Street on a late morning tuesday clattered beyond. 

Jim tried to get out of bed, but only managed to slightly sit up before doubling over in pain. A glass of water, a couple biscuits, and a bottle of pain pills were laid out on the side table. He immediately wanted no part of it. He grit his teeth and pushed through the pain to push himself up and out of bed. He wobbled for a moment, then immediately crashed to the ground in a heap, clutching one of his bound calves. Torn muscle, he hadn’t realized it amid the other injuries the night before.

The door flung open and Sherlock burst in. He reached down to pick Jim up, but the criminal shoved him back. “I didn’t ask you to interfere!”

Sherlock was stunned a moment, but he recovered quickly. He shook his head and picked Jim up like a child, with infuriating gentleness, putting him back in bed and even having the nerve to tuck the covers up around him. 

“Behave yourself or you will only cause further injury,” Sherlock chastised, /chastised/ him. The detective sat beside Jim and opened the pill bottle. “You haven’t taken any.” 

“I don’t need them.”

Sherlock shook out a couple of the pills into his palm and pressed one to Jim’s lips which immediately pursed shut. Sherlock sighed. “Don’t be a child. You need to sleep and it will help if you numb the pain.”

Jim glared back defiantly until Sherlock poked him sharply in the ribs, surprising Jim into hissing. As soon as his lips cracked open, Sherlock deftly shoved a pill into his mouth and poured the water into his mouth. Jim coughed and sputtered, but he’d lost the battle, the pill was already sliding down his throat. “What did you give me,” he snarled.

“Nothing addictive. I know you despise that.” Sherlock peeled back the blanket and gingerly examined the area of Jim’s ribs where he had poked. 

Jim’s head flopped back against the pillow, suddenly exhausted. What was Sherlock doing? Prepping him for arrest? Sherlock’s fingers lingered on his rib cage longer than was strictly necessary, tracing the contour of every dip and swell of Jim’s chest and stomach. “So when does Mycroft come to pick me up?”

“What does Mycroft have to do with this?”

“Didn’t you call him?”

“No.”

Jim lifted his head and locked eyes with Sherlock. He wasn’t lying. “Why not,” he asked.

Sherlock flushed and his fingers pulled away as he busied himself fussing with side table. “I assume you faked your death for a reason. I have no desire to see you in a cage.” He stood up abruptly and walked to the door. “Stay here. You can leave once you’ve recovered.”

Jim gaped at his former nemesis. “Why should I believe you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I - I would enjoy your company.”

Jim blinked at Sherlock in disbelief, at a loss for words. Sherlock’s motivation for this was … was what? 

Sherlock gave Jim a small smile. “Please get some sleep. If you need anything, there’s a small button on the table. It’s wired to my phone and will let me know when you need me. I’ll check up on you in a few hours to change your bandages.”

With that Sherlock closed the bedroom door behind him, leaving Jim Moriarty staring in stunned disbelief for several moments. He lay back on the bed and listened to the sound of the street, beginning to feel the effects of the pain killer as his mind whirled around the strange circumstance he’d found himself in.


	25. The First I love you

It started with rumors, whispers, but didn't it always with him. The ghostly nature of the reports surrounding international exploits which touched every corner of the world, with the glaring exception of the U.K. and Ireland. It was almost as if the shadow had spared those two countries. One out of sentiment perhaps, the other a concession of defeat or … possibly as a gift? 

Tracking his motions covertly, without alerting his friends or his brother, was difficult, but not impossible. It became something of a personal hobby for Sherlock. Something he would pull out and fiddle around with on a slow day in solitude. He convinced himself it was simply an intellectual exercise, but each time he found a particularly clever heist flawlessly implemented somewhere in the world, he found his heart skip a beat and a small smile that almost felt like pride tug at the corner of his mouth. If it was him, he was as glorious as he ever was.

He asked Eurus once a couple years into his project. They had been playing a dueling violin duet for nearly an hour when he dropped his bow. She froze, violin still in place and watched him patiently. 

“You said he’s dead,” Sherlock had said. She rarely spoke anymore, but on this occasion she smiled at him.

“James Moriarty is dead,” she replied.

“Does he enjoy being dead,” Sherlock asked.

“Oh yes.”

Sherlock approached the glass and she mirrored him, quirking her head to the side.

“Will you help me find him?”

“Find who?”

“Whoever it is he’s become.”

She smiled and walked toward the exchange tray. “Give me your phone.”

A month later Sherlock was in Guangzhou, standing out yet simultaneously lost in a sea of people, moving through the rain soaked streets. Eurus had isolated the city, but finding the man within such a population was more difficult than Sherlock had originally planned. He spent three months chasing Jim’s ghost within the city. His visa running out, he was a day away from returning home to regroup when Jim found him.

Sherlock was sitting in a cafe, sitting under an awning open to the street, shielding him from another rainy day. He was nursing a cup of tea and staring numbly at the crowd passing by under their umbrellas when the chair beside him scraped across the floor and someone sat beside him.

Sherlock didn’t look. He knew, thought he knew, but was afraid to be wrong. “Come here often,” he asked his unseen guest.

“It’s a little out of my way,” a coy Irish drawl responded softly.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and blinked away the threat of a tear. Once he was sure his game face was on he dared to look at the man.

“I missed you,” he said, answering the unspoken question just behind the criminal’s lips and Jim smiled serenely at him in response.

“Oh?” A waiter stopped at their table and Jim ordered himself a light lunch for both of them in Mandarin. He smiled charmingly at the waiter when he received his tea and chatted briefly with the waiter before turning back to Sherlock. 

“You seem at home.”

“Anywhere can be home,” Jim said dryly. “So. You missed me. The criminal class went to hell without me back home? Can't say I'm surprised. Now you're bored and want to interfere with me here.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sherlock said.

Jim regarded him a moment. “No, it isn't." Jim frowned, staring at Sherlock as if he were trying to puzzle something out about him. "You want something. What do you want?”

“I want to see you,” Sherlock said, looking down at his tea as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Then see me,” Jim said, sounding slightly irritated. “Then go. I’ve left your London alone.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He looked at Jim and swallowed. “Why?”

Jim scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “You earned it. I consider it your territory.”

“My … territory,” Sherlock repeated. “Oh. I thought -“ He couldn’t bring himself to finish that thought.

“You thought what,” Jim snapped.

Sherlock smiled weakly, raising his cup to his lips. “I thought it was gift,” he said, sipping his tea.

“You’re a moron,” Jim sighed. “I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

Sherlock perked up at that. “What did you see in me?”

Jim glanced out at the street and took a sip of his tea. He swallowed hard and muttered, “It doesn’t matter now.”

“It should.”

Jim froze a second, looking at Sherlock as if he’d just sprouted horns. He set his cup down and ran a hand heavily over his face. He tossed up his hands. “Fine. I’ll bite. Why?”

Sherlock licked his lips and hesitated. Jim stared back at him blankly, waiting.

With every drop of blood in his veins vibrating with hope, fear, and everything that had ever gone unspoken, Sherlock met Jim’s molten gaze and said, “Because I love you.”


	26. OT3 - AdJimLock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. A little bit of life chaos. Seems to be resolved now. Let's finish this up.

It was still something he hadn’t grown used to yet, leaving Baker Street after a job was completed and walking toward the rowhouse he shared with Jim and Irene. For someone who had always rejected the complications of relationships, he’d somehow found himself in the most complex of relationships imaginable. 

Sherlock smiled to himself as he ascended the stairs to the front door, his front door, their front door. He’d never been able to adequately explain to John, let alone his brother, just how very fulfilling this relationship was. It was endlessly stimulating, intimate, and safe. John said it was unhealthy, but he didn’t know, he didn’t see just how good the three of them were together. 

Sherlock opened the door with that same serene smile on his face when he found a naked dead man hanging in a series of restraints from a ceiling suspension bar in the dining room. Fresh blood dripped from the body’s nose to the plastic sheeting spread out beneath it. He’d died less than fifteen minutes ago.

Sherlock closed his eyes and hissed a curse under his breath as he collected himself. Okay, so this might not be the best example to show his best friend. He closed the door, removed his coat, and checked his hair in the hall mirror before venturing into the house, fuming. He was never going to be able to invite his friends over for that housewarming party they all want to throw him for some unfathomable reason. 

Irene was curled in a window seat just off the kitchen, reading a true crime novel in one of Sherlock’s shirts. Her long bare legs were resting on the wall above her. If it weren’t for the spot of blood she’d missed washing from her cheek, the sight would have been reminiscent of a vintage pin up. 

“Who’s our guest,” Sherlock asked, snatching her book between two fingers and scanning the contents with disdain.

Irene stood in a fluid silky motion and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Rude. Say hello properly.” 

Sherlock allowed her to kiss him, but he cut it off quickly. “Hello,” he said with a smile, which after a heartbeat dropped. “Now who is he?”

Irene sighed, wandering to the kitchen. “A client that Jim wanted me to invite over.”

Sherlock gave the corpse a glance, cocked his head, then followed her. “Client? Your client or his?”

Irene poured herself a cup of tea. “Both as it turns out.” She poured a second cup and slid it toward Sherlock. 

“And he’s dead because…”

Irene smirked. “Because he tried to blackmail Jim.”

“Oh.” Instantly he no longer cared. Sherlock picked up his cup and took a sip. “Unlike him to leave a mess like that.”

A pair of arms slipped around his waist from behind. Sherlock tensed a moment, then relaxed when he heard Jim drawl, “Saved it in case you need a body to experiment on.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, a list of experiments running through his mind. “Yes. But later. Is there room in the basement freezer?”

Irene swiped up her phone from the countertop beside the electric kettle and began typing. “I’ll have Kate take care of it.”

Jim slid past Sherlock, dabbing a handkerchief in Sherlock’s tea and walking over to Irene, to wipe the spot of blood from her cheek. “I told you to take a shower,” he said.

Without looking up from her phone, Irene smiled ever so slightly, tilting her cheek toward Jim’s attentions. “I told you to take one with me.”

Jim hummed, tilting Irene’s cheek up to examine her for any additional spots. “We’d still be in there if I did that. Sherlock would come home to an empty house.”

“Not empty. There’s Whatshisface there.” She paused. “What was his name?”

Jim glanced back toward the room and snorted in disgust. “Who cares. He’s no one now.”

Sherlock draped himself over Jim’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of Jim’s head, the freshly washed hair free of product for once. He buried his nose in the soft halo and inhaled the scent of the man deeply.

Irene set her phone down and smiled up at them. “Rough day sexy?”

Sherlock pulled Jim closer and peaked over his head to look at Irene. “Boring case. Kidnapping.”

“Ruckan gang,” Jim drawled, examining his freshly scrubbed nails. “Amateur hour.”

Irene tilted her head back and laughed. “Is that a professional assessment Mr. Moriarty?” She slid to her feet and approached Jim, planting a soft kiss to his lips before leaning over his shoulder to kiss the sulk on Sherlock’s.

“He’s right,” Sherlock whined. He buried his face in the crook of Jim’s neck. “Come out of retirement.”

Jim snickered. “That would be a short lived case.” He tapped his forefinger to his chin, pantomiming deep thought. “Oh where is that wiley villian?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, that’s right! He’s in my bed.” Jim stepped away, leaving Sherlock groaning and reaching for him as the criminal picked up Irene’s tea cup and took a sip.

Irene wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Poor darling. Jim dear, plan a robbery or something for him.”

Jim walked past them toward the kitchen, muttering, “Like what? Mycroft’s umbrella.”

Both Irene and Sherlock perked up instantly. “Yes,” they said in unison.

Jim stopped in his tracks and glanced back at them. “Seriously?”

“PLEASE,” Sherlock shouted and Irene laughed.

Jim shrugged a shoulder lazily. “Fine,” he sighed. He moved toward the bedroom, adding, “After dinner.”

They didn't need to be invited twice. 


	27. AU (Vamplock)

John paced outside the flat, running a hand through his hair and down his face, checking his watch for the hundredth time. He must be crazy to call him, crazy to trust him, that psychopath. But when your room mate turns out to be a vampire, what really qualified as sane anymore. John shuddered at the memory of Sherlock’s eyes glowing ethereal blue, the way his fangs glinted when he hissed in pain and anger “Call Jim!” He’d known what Sherlock was for over a year now, but the detective had been careful to hide any manifestation of his true nature from John. Knowing and seeing were entirely different beasts. 

“How bad is he,” Jim’s voice drawled right behind him and John startled, jogging a couple steps back.

“Jesus!” He reentered himself and glowered at the criminal. He was dressed in jeans and a loose boat neck sweater that dipped down below his collarbones. It was an unusual style choice for the man, but in the moment John didn’t register what he meant. “Took you long enough.”

Jim smiled, then glanced up to the second floor window. “How long?”

John frowned. “How long … what?”

Jim’s head swiveled to level on John once again. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “How long has it been since he stopped feeding?”

John blinked, mind whirring. “Is that what’s wrong with him?”

“Like you don’t know,” Jim laughed.

“I don’t.”

Jim hummed. “Should have been obvious.”

“It’s not. I’m new to this.” John pursed his lips, glowering as Jim simply brushed past him toward the door. “Wait! Why did he want me to call you?”

Jim paused on a step and glanced down over his shoulder. “Why do you think?”

John’s blood vibrated in his veins, his heartbeat began pounding in his ears, but he kept a straight face. “You’re going to feed him.”

“Good boy.”

“Why you? I cold have-“

“He would kill you.” Jim shrugged. “Accidentally. Probably. In this state he wouldn’t be able to stop in time.”

“I’m sure I’d last longer than you.”

Jim’s black eyes began to glow amber, like two burning smoldering coals in he night. “I’ve fed enough for it tonight.”

John stiffened. Shit. Shit shit no. “You’re…”

Jim’s eyes returned to black, throwing his face back in shadow. He gave a bored sigh. “This will take a while. Can I get on with it?”

John took a step back. “Sure. Yes. Fine.” Jim began to ascend the stairs again. John added. “If you hurt him -“

Without looking back Jim sang, “Down puppy.”

—————————————————————————————————————————

Jim felt it vibrating down the steps. Bloodlust. It had been a long time since he sensed it in one of their kind. A century at least. Sherlock and his stupid pet human had waited too long to call him. Sherlock was practically shining a neon beacon to all of their kind - weak vampire here, ripe for enslaving. As he approached the door, Jim’s fangs descended past his lips of their own accord. It was tempting to take advantage, but he preferred Sherlock as an equal. He wasn’t stupid. Another wave of bloodlust rushed over him and he shuddered. Well, he wasn’t normally stupid. 

He opened the door to find Sherlock curled in a ball on the floor, clutching his stomach and groaning. As soon as Jim stepped foot in the flat the detective whirled around, crouched down on the floor and hissed like a wounded animal.

Jim closed and locked the door behind him. “Moron,” he muttered, crossing the room as he removed his wool coat, watching as twin burning blue flames tracked his movement. He tossed his coat over John’s chair. “I should bind you, for a century or two, just to remind you not to be an idiot. I hate it when you’re an idiot.”

Sherlock was beyond understanding, unearthly still in his defensive position, thin and pale as death. Must have been about a year. Since the puppy found out, no doubt. Jim shook his head at the thought as he yanked Sherlock’s jack knife from the mantle, sending papers scattering to the floor. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it to the ground, then approached the cowering, starving vampire slowly. He dragged the blade of the knife along the side of his neck. Hot blood trickled from the wound down to his collarbone and Sherlock was instantly fixated on nothing else. Kneeling down in front of Sherlock Jim whispered, “Come on then sexy.”

Sherlock pounced, fangs sinking deep into Jim’s neck.

—————————————————————————————————————————

When Sherlock woke he felt drunk. He sat up slowly, surprised to find he was in his bedroom. He’d been hungry. Too hungry. He wasn’t hungry any more. No. He felt good. Strong. Panic shot through him and he jumped to his feet. He was nude and smeared with blood. John had been here. John. Oh god.  
He ran out of the room to scour the flat for John’s body when Jim emerged from the washroom, rubbing a towel down his chest. Sherlock narrowly avoided colliding with him, screeching to a halt. 

“J-Jim. You- you-“ Sherlock gaped and Jim just snorted, tossing the towel over his shoulder to the floor and sauntering to the main living room. Sherlock found his gaze falling to the criminal’s bare behind before he shook his head and followed after him. He searched himself, trying to sense for any sign of a bond. Finding none was confusing. 

He found Jim in the kitchen chugging down a glass of water. Jim’s dark eyes slid to the side to meet his as he tipped his head back, draining the glass in a single motion. “You’re welcome,” he said, smacking his lips softly and staring at the glass.  
“Where’s John?”

Jim shrugged. “I’m sure he found a place to stay last night. He tried to come back up in the middle of everything.” He gave Sherlock a wink. “I think he caught a peak at us. I heard him run.”

Sherlock sat down, relief flooding over him. “So he’s fine.”

Jim moaned dramatically. “For the love of - Yes!” He sighed, shaking his head. “Why are you so pathetic?”

“Pathetic?” Sherlock snorted. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“You stopped feeding because of him. Put yourself at risk because of him. What would you call it?”

Sherlock flinched and Jim rolled his eyes. He moved to Sherlock and draped his arms over his shoulders and straddled his lap. Brushing his lips up the line of Sherlock’s jaw, he whispered, “Flattered that you called me. That took some trust.”

“I don’t remember doing that,” Sherlock muttered, but the scent of Jim was particularly alluring in the moment. “I’m surprised you didn’t bind me.”

“Thought about it,” Jim hummed, licking the line of Sherlock’s jugular. “You’d deserve it.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. Any other vampire would have bound him or killed him in that state. Wouldn’t be able to resist. Sometimes Jim’s anarchist, mad tendencies did have its benefits. “Then I owe you my thanks.”

Jim giggled, his breath brushing Sherlock’s skin. “You owe me soooo much more than that honey.”

Sherlock laughed, lifting his chin to bare his neck. “I suppose I do.”

Jim’s fangs scraped the skin, but didn’t pierce. Instead he flicked his tongue over the scratch. “Another time.”

“Why,” Sherlock asked, nuzzling Jim’s neck. 

“Because you still don’t have the strength for it.” Jim leaned back, pulling away from Sherlock. “You’re going hunting with me tonight.”

Sherlock huffed, watching Jim’s tantalizing skin pull away. “You sound like Mycroft.”

“Rude.”

“True,” Sherlock shrugged.

“I’m supposed to what? Feed you like a fledgling every week for the next … oh how long are human lifespans these days?”

“It’s not John’s fault,” Sherlock growled.

“No. It’s yours.”

The two of them stared at each other in stubborn silence. Finally Sherlock sighed. “Fine. This once.”

“Until you start hunting on your own again.”

“You can’t make me,” Sherlock hissed.

Jim snatched Sherlock’s hair and wrenched his head back. “I can if I bind you dear.”

Sherlock froze. “You’ll do that?”

Jim smiled and his fangs slipped from his lips. “Only if you make me darling.”


End file.
